Stop Loss
by YourFairyGodfather
Summary: AU. Kurt Hummel never went to McKinley, developing his talents at Carmel as the protégé of Jesse St James instead. Everything is going according to plan, until the day a beautiful, damaged transfer student named Blaine throws his world upside down.
1. Chapter 1

Happy Thursday, friends, and welcome to my first ever AU piece. I know, I'm worried too.

As usual, I don't own anything. I did, however, get a Warblers shirt for my birthday-one step closer to livin' the dream.

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><p>Kurt Hummel loved the fall.<p>

He loved the grey, bleak skies contrasting sharply with the half-skeletal trees, still bearing the vestiges of vibrant autumn leaves. He loved the smell of spiced cider and roasted pumpkin seeds and vegetable soup, however rarely he actually indulged in them personally.

Most of all, he loved standing outside in a stylish peacoat and scarf, the way he remembered his mother doing when he was little, letting the harsh wind tear at him. Or try to—however chilly the air became, it couldn't touch him beneath his layers.

It was clearly superior to all other seasons.

* * *

><p>Of course, none of those things were particularly relevant at 5:57pm on the second Thursday of October.<p>

"Mediocre," Shelby declared flatly, staring hard at the line of sweaty, fiercely attentive teenagers, most of whom were still out of breath from their latest run-through. "Tenors, where were you on the bridge? Louder—don't let the sound die out just because you're doing backflips. _Compensate._"

The tenor section, though evidently not up to standard performance-wise, was well trained in the art of accepting constructive criticism—only the freshman showed any traces of despair.

Kurt tugged discreetly at the back of his tight black shirt as Shelby continued making corrections. The stage lights that created such flattering silhouettes during performances were still on, making his sweaty clothes stick uncomfortably to his body. Over a year's worth of rehearsals with Vocal Adrenaline had taught him this: there was no time of day more glorious than the post-practice shower.

Cleanliness, relaxation, and a choice of 42 body washes. The building could catch fire while he was in there, and the fire marshal would still be prying a loofah out of his cold, dead hands.

"Andrew and Kurt," Shelby called, interrupting his reverie and naming the choir's two countertenors, "no complaints. Jesse—excellent on lead. Talk to me in five about your audition pieces."

Jesse St. James nodded smoothly from his place in the center, smiling victoriously.

"All right everyone," Shelby announced, clapping her hands to regain any wandering attention. "It's a choreography day tomorrow, so Dakota will be running the show." Everyone knew better than to complain out loud. Shelby frowned anyway. "I want a good report back on Monday. Expect to be here until 8:30—dinner is from 6 to 6:05, so pack something."

Kurt expertly stifled a groan, mentally making a note to pack an extra pair of shoes as well. No matter how many times the veterans tried to tell the freshmen that a granola bar and half of a protein shake were about all their bodies could hold onto during a Dakota Stanley rehearsal, some idiot always tried to push it with a sandwich or a bag of chips. Inevitably, someone's feet would get puked on, and Kurt had already had one close call back in September.

Checking her watch, Shelby sighed. "Ok, we're done for tonight. Be on time tomorrow, and don't do anything stupid over the weekend. See you Monday."

Kurt sighed with relief, pulling a handkerchief out of his back pocket to wipe the layer of sweat from his face.

The fabric was immediately snatched out of his hands. "I'm surprised you can fit anything back there," a familiar voice pointed out with amusement. "I was sure when you missed a step two hours ago, it was because your pants were restricting the circulation to your feet."

Kurt rolled his eyes, stealing back his property. "You wish you looked this good in my clothes," he retorted, looking Jesse up and down and feigning disdain.

Jesse preened under the attention. "I look better than you in your clothes," he bragged, "and you don't have the musculature to fill mine out. I know you turn down my invitations to the gym because you're afraid of paling in comparison to me—in more ways than one," he added, eying Kurt's flawlessly clear skin with exaggerated deliberateness, "but really, Kurt. One should strive for excellence in all areas. It makes you well rounded."

"And you, of course, are excellent as always, in all ways," Kurt mocked, only the barest hint of bitterness seeping into his tone. He didn't particularly care; Jesse could handle whatever Kurt threw his way.

And predictably, Jesse didn't take the bait. "In order to shine like a star, you must first avoid sucking," he quoted, smiling enigmatically. "This is, what, your sixth rehearsal in a row without being personally criticized?"

Kurt huffed slightly. "Seventh, thank you, and you know it," he replied haughtily.

Jesse's smile grew. "You're not a threat to me," he reminded Kurt nonchalantly. "But if I were a sophomore or junior with my eye on the lead soloist position for next year? I might be keeping track.

"Did you see which way Nia went?" he asked, casually looking around as Kurt stretched his tired muscles. "I need a partner to practice dueting with for vocal evaluations next month."

Kurt, knee halfway to his chest, raised an eyebrow. "You told her yesterday that the sound of her voice makes your eardrums threaten suicide," he pointed out. "Why would you want to sing with her? And more importantly, why would _she _agree to sing with _you _after you made her cry in front of the entire soprano section?"

The stage lights glinted off of Jesse's perfectly white teeth. "She'll sing with me because I'm Jesse St James," he said simply. "And tell me why I'll sing with her."

Kurt rolled his eyes yet again. "Singing with others at your level makes you lazy," he parroted, dropping his pitch in a well-practiced mimicry of Jesse's condescending tone. "Dueting with your vocal inferiors forces you to stay sharp and vocally flexible, in order to cover their flaws and spontaneous errors without appearing to the listener to be doing so."

"Nia is the most vocally inferior singer Vocal Adrenaline has," Jesse stated, without emotion or apology. "Ergo, my perfect partner."

He clapped Kurt on the shoulder. "It's your turn to take care of the spy, by the way," he added, heading for the stairs at the edge of the stage. "He's been watching from your eight-o-clock for over half an hour. His hair needs even more help than yours."

Kurt shot him an evil glare. Jesse merely smiled in return, waggling his fingers dramatically as he walked backwards, turning away from Kurt precisely six inches from the top of the steps. Just like he always did—Jesse's command of the stage was flawless and innate, and he made sure that everyone knew it.

It was an ugly thought and Kurt wasn't proud of it, but every once in a while, he couldn't help but wish that Jesse would miscalculate and stumble, just like everyone else.

Exhaling sharply, Kurt quickly shook out his muscles and wove his way through the remaining singers, slipping backstage.

* * *

><p>Vocal Adrenaline was the top show choir in the country, and easily the only serious competition for the National Title for about 400 miles. Consequently, they hosted spies on a regular basis—at least one per week. This one, Kurt figured, couldn't be too intelligent if he was still on Carmel's campus after rehearsal had ended. Most of them were bright enough to try and sneak out early. They almost never made it to the parking lot, of course, but the instinct for self-preservation was usually there.<p>

Which meant that this boy—_he_, Jesse had said—was either a complete moron, or absurdly confident in his ability to take care of himself in a fight. Kurt, badly as he suffered fools, was sincerely hoping for the former.

Stepping carefully and quietly around the duffle bags and jackets that littered the ground backstage, Kurt peeked around the closest leg to take a look at the spy.

His first impression was that the boy was small. Not that he was short, necessarily—he was maybe only an inch or so shorter than Kurt's own 5'7"—but that he was built compactly, taking up the minimum amount of space that his mass would allow. And also, there was something about the way he was standing, one arm wrapped protectively around his waist while his other hand tugged at a cord around his neck, that made him seem…diminished, somehow. Fragile.

Besides the necklace, the spy's style was a little too hipster-esque for Kurt's sensitive palate—faded red t-shirt, grey cardigan, and black jeans—and his hair was unforgivably wild, with glossy dark curls spilling every which way. He remembered the comment Jesse had made about his hair, and made a mental note to throttle him later.

None of those elements on their own were particularly to Kurt's taste. Put together, however, he couldn't help but admit that the boy was…well, _pretty_. Almost startlingly so.

Or at least he would have been, if the left side of his face wasn't fantastically bruised, with bright red scratches visible against the unnatural blues and purples of his skin.

Something in Kurt's chest tightened.

He squinted, taking a closer look as the spy shifted his weight. Not much of his body was visible, but Kurt could see what looked like scratches on the boy's hands, and a bruise (or was that a hickey?) on his neck. And though it was hard to tell, since he was looking from the side, Kurt was fairly certain that the boy's eyes were too bright, and his blinking too rapid, to be natural.

He'd spent enough time on the verge of tears to recognize it in someone else, after all.

The boy, watching the dozen or so remaining students with an almost unnerving intensity, hadn't noticed him yet. Kurt retreated back into the shadows.

There were no formal rules for dealing with spies; the methodology of their eviction was left solely up to the discretion of whomever was in charge of it that day. Though some of the more brutish vocalists preferred to exercise a somewhat 'hands on' line of attack, Kurt tended to favor the more innocuous approach of informing campus security and letting them deal with the miscreant—who may or may not get a warning, depending on the type of day Kurt was having. He'd been in Vocal Adrenaline long enough that such an occurrence had become more of a commonplace annoyance than anything else; five minutes out of his day that could have been spent elsewhere.

He'd never hesitated before.

But somehow, the idea of calling security to chase the beautiful, broken boy out of the school made Kurt's stomach twist uncomfortably. At the same time, however, he couldn't just leave the spy backstage, even if there wasn't really much to spy on now that rehearsal had officially ended. Someone else could spot him and deal with him, or—if he was actually better at his job that he appeared to be—he could walk out unchallenged with valuable information.

Neither possibility was particularly palatable. Luckily, Kurt Hummel was nothing if not inventive.

In the far corner of the backstage area, just past the props closet, were Vocal Adrenaline's three Sub-Zeros. Ignoring the refrigerated shelving filled with gross orders of Red Bull and electrolyte replacement drinks, Kurt pulled open one of the freezer drawers, selecting a moldable ice pack. Grabbing a hand towel from the nearby sink, he approached the boy quietly, trying not to startle him.

Another mark against the spy—he was not particularly aware of his surroundings. By the time the boy noticed him (and jumped at least six inches in the air) Kurt was already standing beside him, offering the wrapped ice pack. "For your face," he explained gently, when the boy merely looked at him with questioning, slightly frightened eyes. "It looks like it's still hurting."

The boy didn't smile, exactly, but his posture relaxed a little. "It's not as bad as it looks," he said hoarsely, before clearing his throat. "It's been a few days."

Kurt nodded. "I don't suppose you want to talk about it," he asked, already fairly certain of the boy's answer. The spy didn't disappoint, shaking his head vehemently.

And wincing in pain at the sudden pressure the gesture inflicted on his bruised skin. "If it still hurts to move, you still need ice," Kurt insisted sagely, holding out the ice pack again. "Don't be such a boy about it."

The boy hesitated for a moment, eyeing Kurt as if he were afraid Kurt might change his mind and withdraw the offering. When Kurt didn't move, however, he slowly reached out and took the ice. "Thank you," he said quietly, continuing to watch Kurt carefully as he placed the towel against his cheekbone.

The boy had beautiful eyes.

Kurt forced himself to look away, focusing instead on the stage. "You have a decent view from here," he observed politely, looking absently at the last remaining stragglers.

He felt the boy shift next to him. "Yeah," he agreed. "You guys were really good; I was really impressed."

Kurt paused, unsure whether or not to react to the compliment, or to the fact that the spy had just openly admitted to watching their rehearsal. He sighed deeply—this was why he always let security handle intruders. They didn't have to concern themselves with social etiquette or exacerbating noticeable emotional damage by being overly accusatory or pretty, fragile looking boys with beautiful eyes and insanely long lashes and tragically under-styled hair.

This was turning out to be more of an inconvenience than Kurt had anticipated after all.

He turned back toward the boy, who was still observing him. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," he said diplomatically, cursing himself inwardly for what he was about to do when the boy finally gave him the tiniest of smiles. He took a deep breath. "And believe me when I tell you that this is as awkward for me as it is for you," he said, almost apologetically, "but if you have any notes, tapes, recordings, etc, I'm going to need to take them before you leave. It's a security thing."

Kurt wasn't sure what he expected the boy to do after being called out—run for it, maybe. Deny everything, perhaps, or outright refuse to comply with Kurt's demand.

What he didn't expect was the boy's smile to grow, just the smallest amount. "You think I was…documenting you?" he asked Kurt, a hint of amusement playing at the features that weren't obscured by bruises or the ice pack.

Kurt, somewhat nonplussed at the boy's unusual reaction, wasn't entirely sure how to respond. "Our school motto is 'Murder or Be Murdered'", he answered finally. "We tend to treat all unfamiliar faces as potentially hostile until proven otherwise."

The boy nodded slowly. "Do you think I'm hostile?" he wanted to know.

He was still smiling.

Kurt shook his head. "No," he answered honestly. "But maybe you're just a really good actor."

The boy considered that. "I am, actually," he confessed. Reaching into the pocket of his sweater, he held up a slip of paper in between two fingers. Kurt took it and unfolded it.

It was a hall pass from the main office, marked with that day's date. _Reason for Visit: Transfer Student_ was stamped across the bottom in slightly smudged ink.

Kurt raised an eyebrow. The boy took back his pass. "Good actor, just not a spy," he clarified.

Kurt smiled back approvingly. "In that case, welcome to Carmel," he offered sweetly.

The new kid's mouth twisted slightly. "Maybe not," he countered. "This was my third school visit today, and I have another one scheduled out in Westerville for tomorrow."

Westerville. Which, of course, meant Dalton Academy. Interesting. "Private school shopping?" he asked knowingly, hoping for a little more information.

The not-spy blushed slightly. "Mostly," he admitted, looking at his feet. "Not everywhere has space for a sophomore transfer, though, so I might go Charter."

Kurt blinked. If the way the boy was twining his hand into his necklace again was any indication, the new topic of conversation was steering into murky waters. Which, of course, made him feel like a jerk for pushing.

Also, it was starting to get late. "I'm a sophomore as well," he confided lightly, dipping his head a bit in an attempt to make the boy look back up. It worked, sort of—the boy didn't stare at him the way he had done before, but he was at least peeking back at Kurt through his eyelashes.

All in all, he'd count it as a success.

It really was getting late. "Well, potential new kid," he teased gently, "enjoy your sojourn to Westerville tomorrow. But if I may be so bold?" The boy looked at him inquiringly. Kurt smiled. "Pick Carmel. They force you to wear matching blazers in Westerville, and that is not something I would wish on anyone.

"I'm Kurt Hummel, by the way," he added, offering his hand.

For the first time since Kurt had found him backstage, the boy didn't hesitate to reach back.

"Blaine. Blaine Anderson."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2-not necessarily what I had originally intended to write, but guys. There were just so many *feelings* and all of the sudden the end happened. The good news is, the next chapter is, consequently, written in my head already, and I just need to find the time to type it all out.

Thank you all for supporting me in my current ridiculous endeavor. As per usge, I don't own Glee or any of the songs inferred. One day...

* * *

><p>Kurt didn't think about the not-spy all weekend.<p>

He didn't glance into the wings every once in a while at rehearsal, or imagine what the boy's hair might feel like between his fingers while Jesse flippantly criticized his own (out of jealousy, obviously). He didn't wonder what Blaine was doing on Saturday while rotating tires or doing paperwork at his Dad's tire store. And he certainly didn't spend Sunday night planning his Monday outfit with extra-fastidious precision, just in case.

No, after walking Blaine to his car and seeing him safely off campus on Thursday, Kurt didn't pay the boy even a second thought.

It was possible, though, that he began keeping a watchful eye out for any new faces around Carmel as soon as he arrived at school on Monday. Ten minutes earlier than he usually made it to campus, oddly enough.

* * *

><p>His impatience was rewarded at the beginning of fourth period. The bell had yet to ring, and Kurt was surreptitiously searching his bag for the bottle of nail polish he <em>knew<em> he'd packed the night before (according to the syllabus, they'd be watching and discussing a set of documentaries on the Cold War all week—a perfect opportunity to buff and polish) when he heard a quiet, slightly familiar voice ask Mrs. Jennings if she'd initial his sheet for the front office, please. Kurt's head snapped up of its own accord.

His bruises had faded a bit over the past four days—and his hair was a little less wild; he must have been using conditioner—but it was unmistakably Blaine standing at the front of the classroom, an odd mixture of politeness and apprehension on his face. Mrs. Jennings eyed his injuries sympathetically. "You must be Blaine, then?" Kurt heard her ask, gesturing for him to come closer and taking his form to sign.

The closer proximity of the two, combined with the increasing volume in the classroom as more students continued to file in, made it impossible for Kurt to continue eavesdropping on Blaine's short conversation with their teacher. He did, however, make it a point to sit up straighter in his seat—ensuring that Blaine could see him from where he sat in the fourth row, should he choose to look around.

And sure enough, when Blaine took back his paper with a nervous smile and began scanning the room, he met Kurt's eye.

Kurt, not wanting to creep out the new kid on his first day by being overbearing, quickly arranged his features in a surprised-but-pleased expression as he lifted his hand in a casual wave. Blaine waved back, but didn't smile the way Kurt had hoped he would. Instead, he looked quickly around the room and shot Kurt a questioning look, his hand tightening on the strap of his bag. Kurt frowned, puzzled. _What does he…_

It dawned on him suddenly that Blaine wouldn't know which seats were already claimed, and which ones were okay for him to take. He quickly pointed to the desk behind him, and watched with a twinge of amusement as Blaine practically melted with relief and strode to the back of the classroom to join him.

"Thank you," he said gratefully, "I've been stuck in the front row for all of my classes so far."

Before Kurt could answer, Mrs. Jennings called the class to order. Thankfully, she didn't ask Blaine to introduce himself to the class—he hunkered down painfully low in his seat when she alerted the class to his presence as it was—but glances continued to flicker back to where he sat as the other students furtively scoped out the new boy. Whispers became audible around the room when Mrs. Jennings directed her attention toward the DVD player, all of them concerning the state of Blaine's face.

Even without looking back, Kurt could sense Blaine tensing up behind him. All in all, he was thankful when the documentary was finally ready and the lights were shut off, taking Blaine out of the unwanted spotlight.

Kurt had never really been 'the new kid' before; his first day at Carmel had been in September of his freshman year, like everyone else. Still, he could imagine what Blaine was feeling right now, and he was sure it wasn't pleasant. He probably needed a friend right now, more than Kurt needed to learn about the Warsaw pact.

Making his decision, Kurt slipped a hand into his bag, bypassing his accessories and notebooks in favor of a slim pad of post it notes. _Welcome to the back of the room then, New Kid,_ he wrote in flowing, flowery script. _I see you chose to forgo the blazer._ He debated momentarily whether or not to draw a smiley face—too tacky, or a friendly gesture? In the end, he reasoned that Blaine could probably use all the friendly gestures Kurt could give, and quickly added one before sticking the note to Blaine's desk.

Without turning around, of course—he didn't want a detention, and Blaine seemed skittish enough even without getting into trouble on his first day.

Listening closely, he heard Blaine carefully peel the note off the desk. A minute later, he heard a pen scratching behind him. And then, a delicate press on the back of his shoulder, as Blaine returned the note by sticking it to his shirt.

Kurt allowed himself an approving smile that nobody, least of all Blaine, could see in the darkness of the room.

Blaine's handwriting was exactly what Kurt might have imagined it to be, had he been pressed for a description: small, slightly slanted, and effortlessly neat. _I'm on the waiting list for Blazer Academy, since it was my parents' favorite,_ the note read, _but I don't think that navy blue polyester is really my style._

Kurt started a new note, deftly pocketing the first—which was not going into his desk drawer at home, because that would be slightly ridiculous. _Polyester isn't anyone's style, it's the last resort of those who have given up,_ he wrote back. He was about to pass it behind him, when a thought occurred to him. _So, are you planning on auditioning for Vocal Adrenaline, then? Or is watching people stretch more your thing?_

It wasn't until after Kurt reached back to stick the note on Blaine's desk that he realized how unintentionally flirtatious his phrasing had been. He frowned.

It wasn't that he didn't _want _to flirt with Blaine, because even with his marred face, the boy was gorgeous. Not to mention kind, and funny, and seemingly interested in music—all plusses in Kurt's book. But he was also incredibly nervous and easily startled, and it was his first day at a new school. And it didn't take a flying leap of intuition to put two and two together and figure out that Blaine's injuries and demeanor had something to do with him leaving his old school. It didn't look like the boy could handle another stressor just yet, and getting blatantly hit on by the first guy to talk to him at Carmel might be the thing to push him over the edge.

Besides which, while Kurt definitely had his suspicions, Blaine hadn't actually said or done anything to confirm that he was gay. And, well, that was sort of a critical point in a romantic relationship.

Blaine pressed the note back on Kurt's shoulder with a little more force than the first time, and Kurt peeled it off apprehensively. And let out a quiet sigh of relief when he read it:

_I have an audition NEXT PERIOD, and I am so not ready. Help? (And if I was watching, it was out of jealousy—I can barely touch my toes without falling over.)_

Tiptoeing around the unknown sexuality of a boy he was interested in being friends and possibly more with? Kurt apparently wasn't so great at that. But audition help, _that_ he could do.

_Do you have a song picked out? _he quickly scribbled back.

_A few, _Blaine responded, _but I don't know which one would work the best for Ms. Corcoran, and I've never done a choir audition before, just musical theatre._

The credits began rolling on the television, and Mrs. Jennings got up from her seat to turn on the lights. Kurt had time for one more note:

_I'll walk you to the auditorium after class. Get ready for a four-minute crash course._

* * *

><p>If Kurt was in a hurry, he could get from World History to the auditorium in less than two minutes. Today with Blaine, he walked extra slowly. "Okay," he began, "first of all, Shelby is interested in showmanship as much as, if not more than, legitimate talent. So really try and express the <em>tone<em> of your song while you're singing. Does that make sense?"

Blaine nodded. "Tone, expression, got it. What else?"

Kurt nodded back. "Range. Whatever you're going to be expressing during the song, do the opposite when you first walk in. Look serious if it's a happy song, excited and confident if it's a ballad. Show her that you're capable of emanating more than one emotion. Do you have your music?"

Blaine quickly pulled three sets of sheet music out of his bag and passed them to Kurt, watching him eagerly.

Kurt bit back a smile. "All right," he continued, "I'm going to ask you a question, and try and be honest: on a scale from one to ten, how talented a singer are you? One being a seven year old at her first voice recital, and ten being Mariah Carey without the occasional bouts of crazy?"

Blaine bit his lip, thinking. "Can I do half points?" he wanted to know. Kurt nodded. "About a five and a half then, I guess," he decided.

Kurt flipped through Blaine's choices. "Okay. Don't do this one," he directed, handing a few sheets back for Blaine to put away, "Jesse sang this last year at our End of Term concert; Shelby's heard him do it a million times. And you don't want her comparing you to Jesse unless you can beat him." He looked back and forth between the two remaining pieces. "These are both in your range, and one isn't clearly stronger than the other?" he asked, masking his surprised incredulity as well as he could.

Blaine looked down at his feet. "Yeah. I mean, they're not great, but…"

He shrugged. "I didn't really have a lot to go on. Like I said, musical theatre. Hence that one," he explained, pointing to the song in Kurt's left hand.

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "You were Billy Lawlor?" he wanted to know.

Blaine blushed. "It was eighth grade. I was too short to play Julian Marsh."

He looked up at Kurt through his eyelashes, as if he expected him to make fun of his height. It was probably the most adorable thing Kurt had ever seen.

He shook his head, trying to drive that unhelpful observation from his mind. _Friend,_ he reminded himself, _be a friend._

"As much as it truly pains me to say this," Kurt said sadly, freeing a hand and placing it over his heart, "Danny, our accompanist? He really doesn't like show tunes. I know," he responded to Blaine's disbelieving look, "it's something of a conflict of interest. But he'll be playing for you when you sing for Shelby, and you want him on your side. Which means you'll want to err on the side of no Broadway."

Blaine's smile was back. "I guess Rufus it is," he agreed, taking back his music from Kurt.

All too soon, they were turning the corner into the music wing. Blaine exhaled sharply as they reached the auditorium door. "I can do this," he muttered—more to himself than Kurt, Kurt figured.

He smiled reassuringly. "Of course you can. Just be polite, sing when Shelby tells you to, and try not to fall off the stage. And if she tests your range, stick with one syllable—don't use solfege unless she gives you something to sight sing."

Blaine let out a short, stuttering laugh. "Something tells me you've coaxed people through this before," he noted, running a hand roughly over his head. Completely destroying his hair, of course.

Kurt shook his head, amused. "Hands by your sides," he demanded gently, before Blaine could do any further damage to his appearance. Blaine complied with a look of surprise, watching Kurt warily as he reached out to tuck the errant strands of Blaine's tousled hair back in place. "There, much better," Kurt decided, flashing Blaine a confident grin.

It immediately dissipated as he took in Blaine's uneven breathing and forced smile.

"That was—I'm sorry," Kurt apologized quickly. "I'm so used to fixing people's hair that I— I should have asked first. I'm so sorry." He bit his lip, stepping back a little to give Blaine more personal space.

_Crap._

Blaine was shaking slightly. "No! No, it's not you," he explained breathlessly. He reached a hand up, as if he were going to run it through his hair again. He caught himself in time, lowering his arm back down. "It's not you," he repeated, more earnestly than the first time. "I just…"

He gestured helplessly to his face. "I just need to get used to people touching me again, that's all."

Despite the explanation, Kurt still felt uneasy. Or, perhaps, it was the explanation itself:

_I just need to get used to people touching me again._

On the one hand, that _could_ have been an invitation to ask Blaine what had happened to him. But it could just as easily have been a convenient excuse for why he didn't want _Kurt specifically _to touch him. And while Blaine didn't seem to be mad, Kurt didn't want to commit a second faux pas in the span of five minutes by misreading the situation.

It was probably best to play it safe, for the time being, and not pursue it. "Still, I _should _have asked," Kurt admitted. "And I didn't mean to upset you right before your audition."

Blaine's smile was small, but genuine. "It's an audition. I was already nervous," he pointed out. "And if it weren't for you, I'd probably be wandering around the building like an idiot, looking for a piano."

Kurt's eyes softened. "Not good with directions?" he questioned.

Blaine shook his head emphatically. "Never leave me alone in a mall," he cautioned. "I'd end up unfindably lost for days."

"Never leave me alone in a mall either," Kurt countered, "there'd be no couture left for anyone else."

The bell rang, and Kurt swore under his breath—he had French next, and the classroom was on the other side of the building. "I'm sorry," Blaine apologized anxiously, "I didn't mean to make you late."

Kurt waved dismissively. "Don't worry about it," he said reassuringly, "I'm something of a teacher's pet in my next class. Break a leg, okay? Let me know how effusively Shelby sings your praises."

Blaine smiled at him one final time, before swallowing uneasily and slipping quietly into the auditorium.

Kurt watched him go, then sprinted all the way to the languages hall.


	3. Chapter 3

This is, for certain, one of the longest chapters I've written for anything on here. I didn't mean to, but there was just so much _talking _and _exposition _and boys_ talking about their feelings._ If none of that is your particular brand of vodka, I'm going to direct you to anything I've written featuring Santana, instead :)

I don't own Glee, or Rufus Wainwright. I do own cinnamon tea. And it's still early, so I'mma go make some.

* * *

><p>It hadn't occurred to Kurt until halfway through math class that, unless he and Blaine had another class together later in the day, he had no way of finding out how Blaine's audition had gone—he hadn't asked him for his phone number (yet) and the Facebook stalking that Kurt had finally succumbed to on Saturday had yielded nothing of use.<p>

It turned out that 'Blaine Anderson' was a frustratingly common name, and Kurt hadn't been able to narrow the results by too much without knowing the name of Blaine's old school.

By the time rehearsal rolled around and there had still been no sign of Blaine, Kurt had nearly resigned himself to waiting until History the next day to find out anything. Fortunately, Shelby saved him the trouble.

"All right people, listen up," she ordered, clapping her hands together once vocal warm-ups had ended. "I know most of you have heard the rumors, and in this case, they're true: we have a new member starting with us on Wednesday."

Kurt smiled as the murmuring began. For all his nerves, Blaine must have done pretty well—Shelby sometimes granted a singer an immediate spot in Vocal Adrenaline, but was far more likely to take her time in deciding, sometimes taking up to a week to make the final judgment.

Shelby frowned at the sudden outbreak of whispers. "His name is Blaine Anderson, and he's a recent transfer from Aquinas High School," she said in a slightly raised voice, a tactic that never failed to intimidate and silence the group.

Today was no exception.

She continued in her normal tone. "He'll be joining the tenor section for now, so Tenors, give him whatever help he needs. Andrea, Ben," she called out, naming Vocal Adrenaline's two dance captains, "he has third period gym and fifth period lunch. He's on The List until his injuries heal, but I want him integrated into all non-partner work by November. Clear?"

Andrea and Ben nodded enthusiastically at the prospect of fresh blood—probably literally. Privately, Kurt couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for Blaine. Both students were phenomenal dancers, but strict taskmasters; not ideal teachers for someone who professed to be incapable of balancing while touching his toes. At least he was on The List, though, and consequently wouldn't be expected to actually dance onstage until he was ready.

The List was something of an injuries roster for Vocal Adrenaline—anyone with a crippling injury, serious illness, or visible deformity was physically benched until they could perform up to Shelby's standards. And because of their hellish rehearsal schedule, injuries were common: Kurt had spent about a month and a half the previous year singing from backstage with the constantly-fluctuating group of slightly broken performers. It had been fine for the first few weeks, but by the time his sprained ankle had healed, he had been _itching_ to dance so badly that he was an entirely unpleasant person to be around.

Kurt didn't have much time to spend pitying Blaine, or wondering why he hadn't come to rehearsal today—Shelby was determined to cement the set list for their Sectionals competition by Wednesday, which meant run-throughs of every piece they had worked on all year. Multiple times. In various orders. When their ten minute break finally came at 4:30, Kurt wasn't the only one who was desperate for it. While half the group made a beeline for the refrigerators or ducked offstage in the direction of the restrooms, many of the students merely collapsed on the spot. Kurt was among the latter.

Stretched out on the ground, he'd been debating whether or not fetching a bottle of water was worth wasting his precious moments of non-movement (the pros and cons were about even) when a drop of ice water landed on his cheek. He opened his eyes lazily—Jesse was standing over him with a bottle of vitamin water. "I thought you might be thirsty," he explained, as another drop of condensation rolled down the side of the bottle. It narrowly missed Kurt's ear.

Kurt stretched out his arms—the water was just out of reach. He frowned at Jesse, who smiled back. "Manners, Kurt," he admonished faux-seriously.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "You are the true and ever-living God," he offered sarcastically.

Jesse handed him the bottle and sat down. "I got you the last of the blueberry," he pointed out, as Kurt twisted of the top and drained half the bottle. "I know you're passionate about your antioxidants. I might have had to frighten a couple of freshman girls to get it, though—you might want to apologize to them later."

Kurt swallowed another mouthful, feeling about a hundred times better than he had five minutes ago. "No need to tell me who; I'll just look for the tear streaks," he reproached mildly.

If Jesse noticed the sarcasm, he didn't show it. Kurt didn't press the issue—he'd pretty much given up on maneuvering Jesse and Common Decency into the same room, at this point in their relationship.

Besides, it appeared that Jesse had other plans for the conversation. "So," he began cheerfully, "tell me everything you know about our newest addition. Blake?"

"Blaine," Kurt corrected automatically. "And what makes you think I know anything about him?"

"Shelby," Jesse answered simply. "She mentioned him in my voice lesson. Apparently, he was our spy on Thursday. Which you know already, of course."

Kurt shrugged. "If you talked to Shelby, you probably know as much as I do," he pointed out, glancing at the clock on the wall. Three minutes left. "I don't know why you're even asking me," he added. "I know you're not interested."

Even after knowing him for as long as he had, Jesse's smile was no less enigmatic. "Who says I'm not interested?" he asked rhetorically. Kurt raised a skeptical eyebrow. Jesse's smile only grew. "I never do anything without a reason, Kurt. You know that. Tell me about the new kid."

They stared at each other, unblinking, for a long moment.

Finally, Kurt looked away. "He's a sophomore, just left his old school, and is on the waiting list at Dalton Academy," he sighed. "He's been in school musicals, but this is his first time in a show choir. He's nice, but a little shy. Drives a three year old Honda and needs a haircut." He glared at Jesse. "Happy?"

Jesse was unfazed by Kurt's scowl. "And his face?" he wanted to know. "How did he get beaten up?"

Kurt shook his head. "He didn't say, I don't know.

"I really don't," he added, when Jesse continued to look at him disbelievingly.

"One minute warning," Shelby called out. Kurt capped his water bottle and pulled himself to his feet.

Jesse followed him backstage, with a mysterious expression on his face that Kurt didn't like the look of. "What are you thinking?" he asked warily, dodging around the other harried students.

Jesse faked a look of innocence that Kurt saw right through. "Nothing you need to worry about," he responded soothingly, picking up Kurt's bag and opening it for him.

Kurt dropped the water bottle in, and Jesse carefully set it back on the ground. "I know you," he pointed out frankly. "He's skittish. Be nice."

Jesse's eyes widened. "Kurt, I'm always nice," he answered, tone of voice slightly injured.

Kurt knew better. "Jesse," he started.

"Final rundown, everyone—six more numbers and you can go home," Shelby announced. "Places for 'Rehab'."

Jesse smiled brilliantly at Kurt, patting his shoulder and heading for his mark at center stage before Kurt could finish his entreaty.

_Don't make him a reason._

* * *

><p>Despite his exhaustion, Kurt couldn't sleep that night. After trying for over two hours to get comfortable, he gave up.<p>

Padding up the basement stairs as quietly as he could, he crept into the living room. Just as he expected, his father was asleep in the armchair, volume on the television turned down low—so as not to wake Kurt up, he knew. Easing the remote out of his dad's hand, Kurt covered him with a blanket before curling up a few feet away on the couch.

He was asleep before Jamie and Adam could bust a single myth.

* * *

><p>Just like the day before, Kurt didn't see Blaine until the new boy walked into History—a scant fifteen seconds before the bell rang. He was slightly out of breath, but smiled brightly at Kurt as he made his way to the back of the classroom. Kurt smiled back, before pretending to pay attention to Mrs. Jennings as she introduced the next documentary they would be watching. In reality, he was listening for Blaine's reaction: Kurt had already left a new post-it note on his desk.<p>

_Congratulations, New Kid—now you don't need to spy on us from the wings in abject jealousy anymore :)_

He didn't have to wait long. A few seconds after Blaine sat down, Kurt heard him let out a soft little laugh. A few minutes later, when Mrs. Jennings had turned off the lights and started the tape, Kurt received a reply:

_THANK YOU! You were so right about the song—Danny actually _thanked_ me for not auditioning with show tunes. _

…_um, those crazy dancers who pulled me out of gym class aren't in charge at every rehearsal, are they?_

Kurt actually had to bite down on his knuckle to keep from laughing and getting them both into trouble.

_No,_ he wrote back, _they're only in charge of catching up anyone who missed rehearsal or has trouble with the choreography. Speaking of which, why weren't you there yesterday?_

Blaine didn't respond immediately.

Kurt worked very hard to keep his paranoia on the inside.

Finally, after several nerve-wracking minutes in which Kurt internally analyzed every possible reason Blaine could potentially have for not writing back, he heard the sound of Blaine's pen scratching across the paper behind him. When Blaine finally stuck the response to the back of his shoulder, Kurt just barely stopped himself from snatching it off, forcing his hand to peel it off with his usual casual delicacy.

_I had an appointment I couldn't miss. Why isn't there rehearsal today?_

Kurt frowned at the note.

_I had an appointment I couldn't miss._

That…was not a sentence that took nine minutes to write. Unless it was a lie, or Blaine was embarrassed about it for some reason. Either way, he had followed it up with an immediate subject change, and Kurt could take a hint. Deciding that he could freak out and be a total overly-analytical loser when Blaine wasn't actually there to see it, he set about answering Blaine's question:

_State law mandates that sports or clubs can only schedule us for a certain number of hours per month. Were double counted as music and dance, but they still have to give us at least one day off per week, since our practices go so late._

Blaine's reply came much more quickly than his last. _Wow, Shelby really wasn't kidding when she said the rehearsal schedule was intense ;)_

Kurt bit back a laugh. _It's true—we lose 30% of the newcomers by the end of September every year. It can be grueling, but in so many ways, it's worth it. And it gets easier after the first two weeks, I promise._

Kurt glanced up at the clock while listening to Blaine scribble away behind him. It was nearing the end of class, and the film was still playing on the TV at the front of the room.

The nicer part of Kurt wanted to blow off class and offer to walk Blaine to lunch—both to spend an extra few minutes with him, and to maybe subtly entreat Andrea and Ben (who would no doubt intercept them at the door) not to be too hard on him. Andrea might not crack, but Ben liked him well enough. Sadly though, Blaine was going to have to be on his own. True to his word, Kurt _was_ something of a teacher's pet in French and hadn't gotten in trouble for being late the day before, but he _had_ been given a mock-stern lecture on the importance of punctuality. In French, of course.

The note was back. _I don't know, Kurt. I'll be spending my first full day in Vocal Adrenaline going home and doing nothing of importance until dinner. Possibly even attempting homework. I'm not sure I can handle this intense level of excitement ;)_

Perhaps it was because class was about to end, or because he knew Blaine was about to be tortured by their dance captains, and would need something better than the banal afternoon he'd just described to look forward to. Maybe it was because Blaine had signed his last two notes with smiley faces. Kurt really wasn't sure where his sudden surge of bravery came from.

It didn't matter. The end result was the same. _Come over to my house for tea after school._

Approximately .3412 seconds after Kurt had passed the note behind him, he wanted to snatch it back. Another two seconds later, his sensitive ears heard Blaine's slightly sharp intake of breath, and he wanted to snatch it back and throw himself out the window with it. Oh god, he'd been too forward. He'd been too forward and scared Blaine, who was already a little nervous around him, he could _tell_—and he hadn't even put a _question mark _at the end of the sentence, he realized suddenly; he'd _demanded that Blaine come over for tea via post-it note, who does that_, and Blaine wasn't going to want to be his friend anymore and _definitely _wasn't going to want Kurt to pull him out of class on some flimsy pretext in order to go down on him in a janitor's closet, not that Kurt would ever try that without at least three signed and notarized letters of consent, but it was a nice option to have available, and—

Blaine pressed a note to the back of Kurt's shoulder.

_I'd love to._

Oh. Well then.

* * *

><p>Kurt drove home with more care than usual that afternoon. He'd offered to give Blaine a ride, but they'd agreed that it made more sense for Blaine to follow him in his own car, so that they didn't have to go back to Carmel for it later. It wasn't a long drive, about twenty minutes if he didn't hit too many red lights. Not as long as it took Blaine to get home, apparently.<p>

"Forty-five minutes?" Kurt asked, eyes wide as he unlocked the front door and held it open for Blaine. "I hope you have a decent music selection."

Blaine smiled tightly. "And a travel coffee mug," he promised, carefully slipping his shoes off and placing them on the mat next to Kurt's.

Kurt led him to the kitchen. "Would you prefer coffee?" he asked politely, taking a pair of mugs out of the cabinet. "I can make some."

Blaine's smile was more genuine this time. "Tea's fine. Do you—I mean, is there somewhere I can make a phone call?" he wanted to know. "My parents like to know where I am."

He looked almost apologetic, an expression that Kurt couldn't easily place. "There's a phone in the living room, right through there," he offered, gesturing with the sugar spoon to the correct doorway. Blaine smiled in thanks before leaving the kitchen, pulling the door nearly closed behind him.

Kurt put the water on to boil, arranging milk and sugar on a tray before selecting a pair of teabags from his collection—he preferred loose leaf himself, but knew that not everyone did. Besides which, he only had cinnamon tea in bags, and Blaine struck him as a cinnamon tea sort of person.

He could hear Blaine talking on the phone down the hall—not clearly enough to understand his half of the conversation, but just loudly enough that Blaine's voice provided a gentle background noise as he put a stack of gingersnap cookies on a plate, adding a few napkins as an afterthought. He wondered who had answered the phone, Blaine's mom or dad; if he had any siblings at home, or if he was an only child like Kurt.

It was nice.

When the tea was ready—and he couldn't hear Blaine talking anymore—Kurt expertly balanced the tray before carrying it into the living room. Blaine was off the phone, and was staring at the shelf on the wall opposite the windows. Kurt didn't have to follow his gaze to know what he was looking at; there was only one item of interest on that particular shelf. "That was the day my father's tire store opened," he explained, setting the tray down on a table and taking Blaine a mug. "I was four. All I remember from that day is Dad giving me the ribbon after he cut it, and me using it to tie a bunch of tires together."

Blaine laughed at that, still examining the picture. "You look so much like your mom," he noted. "I'll bet you hear that all the time."

Kurt nodded slowly, taking a tentative sip of his tea. It was still too hot. "Thank you," he answered quietly. "And not as much as I used to, but Dad tells me at least once a week that my voice reminds him of hers."

Blaine frowned a little at that, evidently picking up on something in Kurt's wording or tone. "Are they separated then?" he asked sympathetically, glancing over at Kurt before blowing gently on his tea to cool it down.

Kurt shrugged sadly. "In a manner of speaking," he replied, looking at the photo of the three of them, happy and young. "She died when I was eight. It was…rather sudden."

Under different circumstances, the stricken expression on Blaine's face might have been almost comical. "Kurt, I'm sorry," he said somberly. "That's awful. I'm…I don't know what to say."

Kurt tilted his head a bit, reaching out with his free hand to straighten the frame. "Most people don't," he said kindly. "But it was a long time ago."

He shook his head slightly, as if the action was all that was needed to reset his thoughts. "Are you hungry? I brought cookies, but I could—" Finishing the sentence turned out to be unnecessary; Blaine's eyes lit up at the mention of the gingersnaps, and Kurt had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the eagerness with which Blaine demolished his first cookie.

"Sorry," Blaine apologized, flushing slightly after swallowing a mouthful. "My manners are usually better, but your dancer friends found me again and didn't let me have lunch."

Kurt nodded in understanding. "They're mercenaries," he agreed dryly. "What class do you have after lunch?"

Blaine took another bite, looking thoughtful. "English," he remembered after a moment, "with…Mr. Sampson?"

"Sandson," Kurt corrected, pleased. "I have him first period. He's really nice—if you tell him that VA made you work through lunch, he'll let you eat during class. He thinks Shelby works us too hard, so it wouldn't hurt if you looked slightly distressed while asking."

Without missing a beat, Blaine shot him an appropriately upset look—big, wet eyes, quivering lip, head tilted shyly.

Kurt nodded approvingly, ignoring the sudden squeezing in his chest. "Beautiful."

Blaine grinned, taking a couple more cookies and a napkin before settling down on the couch. "I don't mind the extra work," he clarified as Kurt sat down opposite him, "I just thought it was strange that all three of us had the same free periods. Don't they have classes?"

Kurt was debating where or not eating a cookie would be worth the half an hour of mental self-flagellation it would inevitably cause later. In the end, he took it—Blaine might feel uncomfortable if he was the only one eating. "Probably not," he said offhandedly, "they're in The Program."

Blaine looked at him inquisitively. Kurt took a sip of tea. "It's not something Carmel likes to advertise," he said carefully. "There technically aren't any laws against it, but that might not last long if the right people found out. If I tell you, do you promise not to tell any reporters, clergymen, or state senators?"

Blaine looked wary. "If the average person found out, would they feel morally compelled to call the police?" he wanted to know. Kurt shook his head, smiling. "Then I promise."

Kurt settled back into his seat. "Carmel is known for its challenging academics, stellar arts program, and high performing sports teams," he rattled off mechanically. "For a while, though, there was a huge burnout problem—kids were having nervous breakdowns, or spending their parents money on insane amounts of Adderall, or hallucinating after not sleeping for days—all the good stuff—because they were trying to perform up to standard. It was a lot of pressure to live up to, and too much was expected."

He looked questioningly at Blaine, who nodded grimly and indicated that Kurt should continue.

He did. "They tried to limit the number of hours that clubs and teams were allowed to meet, but quality took a nosedive, and that's really how Carmel gets a lot of its funding and notoriety. I guess they tried a few more solutions that were equally unsuccessful—this was all before my time, you understand—before they hit upon the current system."

Blaine hadn't lost his wary look, but Kurt could tell by his eyes that he was intrigued. "Which is?" he prompted curiously.

Kurt smiled over his mug. "Academic stuntmen," he said, raising an eyebrow. "For the right price, your intellectual aptitudes and capabilities are assessed periodically throughout the year, and your grades and test scores are calibrated appropriately. Students who attend your classes take notes and send you weekly copies—they have to keep a stellar GPA to qualify, but they're extremely well compensated."

Blaine whistled softly. "So you don't have to go to class at all if you're in The Program?" he asked, looking to Kurt for confirmation.

Kurt shrugged. "Not if you don't want to. It frees up a lot of time during the day, to sleep and recover. In Ben and Andrea's case, to track down students and force them to dance. I'd say about half of Vocal Adrenaline uses it for at least a few of their classes."

Blaine nodded slowly, clearly deep in thought. "What about you?" he wanted to know.

Kurt smiled. "I'm actually a stuntman in math," he explained. "And I enjoy being intellectually challenged, so I've never used it, no. I'm considering it for physics next year, but it's quite expensive."

He refilled Blaine's mug, then his own. "Plus, I'm saving money."

Blaine helped himself to another cookie. "For what?"

"The Young Pre-Professional Summer Performance Academy," Kurt replied, giving the full name of the program all the sardonic pomposity it deserved. "It's a music summer-intensive out in the middle of nowhere. It's ridiculously hard to get into—they only accept fifty kids a year, and only a dozen for musical theatre—but a good report from them will get you into almost any college program in the country. Even the top music schools, like Julliard or Eastman, draw pretty heavily from the program. Jesse's been there twice, and he's practically a shoo-in for UCLA."

Blaine looked impressed. "That sounds really cool. When do you audition?"

Kurt made a face. "Not until March, sadly. But I only have time to work on the weekends, so I had to start saving back in August, just in case. Dad said if I got in, he'd pay for half, but most of my paycheck and the money I get for my math notes are going into savings. You cannot believe the amount my wardrobe has suffered because of it."

The offhanded comment didn't evoke the smile Kurt thought it would. Instead, Blaine looked…almost sad. "You and your dad must be really close," he offered, twisting his napkin awkwardly between his fingers.

Kurt nodded. "He's all I have," he said simply. Blaine nodded back, but didn't respond otherwise. "What's your family like?" Kurt asked curiously.

The napkin ripped in Blaine's hands.

"I'm—obviously you don't have to talk about them if you don't want to," Kurt backpedaled furiously. "That was intrusive, I'm sorry."

Blaine's head snapped up, eyes large. "No, of course you—no," he stumbled, before exhaling sharply. "It's not you, I promise," he tried again. "My family is just…complicated. Especially lately."

Kurt looked at him for a long moment. Finally he nodded. "Come into the kitchen, I'll get you something to eat," he said gently. "You must be hungry if you didn't have lunch."

Blaine wavered. "I don't want you to go to any trouble," he protested, his glance flickering to the empty cookie plate.

Kurt put his empty mug on the tray and lifted the whole thing carefully. "It's not any trouble," he called over his shoulder as he started for the kitchen. "I'm making dinner anyway; I can easily put something together for you."

* * *

><p>Despite Blaine's assurances that he could wait to eat until he got home, Kurt noticed that he tucked into his sandwich with more gusto than turkey and brie on multigrain typically warranted. When Kurt was sure he was settled in, he started working on dinner.<p>

"Wild rice with turkey sausage, with a roasted vegetable salad," he told Blaine as he filled a pot with water. "My dad doesn't like eating healthy, bur his cholesterol is starting to get dangerously high. And he thinks that I don't know that he eats convenience store pizza and boxes of snack cakes whenever I'm at school or rehearsal, but I do." He lit the burner and set the water on to boil before preheating the oven. "We've had the same fight a million times. The only thing that ever works is threatening to leave Carmel, so that I can make sure he eats right and isn't working too many hours. He gets mad, but he'll behave for at least three days after that one." He glanced over at Blaine, who was watching him intently.

"I wasn't supposed to go to Carmel, you know," he mentioned, pulling a Tupperware container full of pre-sliced vegetables out of the refrigerator. "McKinley High is ten minutes away; I should have started there last year. But right at the end of eighth grade, one of my classmates snapped my wrist."

Kurt smiled gently at Blaine's shocked look. "It wasn't as bad as it sounds. It was the one and only fight I've ever been in, and I threw the first punch. I was having a terrible day, and some barbaric cretin who'd been picking on me since preschool said something horrible about my dead mom and why I was such a flamer, and I just snapped."

He smiled ruefully. "Of course, it was incredibly one-sided," he added. "I needed a cast on my arm and stitches for my elbow, and I think the only reason neither one of us got suspended was because it was the last week of school."

The vegetables went into the oven, and Kurt sat down across from Blaine. "To this day, Dad has never asked me about the fight," he said, idly tracing a finger on the table. "But that night, he sat down on the edge of my bed and told me that he knew how gay kids were treated at McKinley, and he'd be damned if little shits like the guy who broke my wrist were going to lay a hand on his son ever again. I'd never told him I was gay, he just knew. The next day, he made a few phone calls, and in the fall I started school at Carmel."

He looked up at Blaine, who was blinking back tears. "There are so many things we don't talk about," he mused, "and when it comes down to it, we don't have a whole lot in common. My clothes completely baffle him, and I hate that he refuses to take his health seriously. But he loves me. And I love him, so much."

Blaine's face crumpled.

Kurt quickly grabbed a box of tissues from the counter and sat next to Blaine. Reaching out tentatively, he laid a hand on his back, rubbing light, soothing circles as Blaine shook silently with his face in his hands. The water on the stove began to boil, but Kurt chose to ignore it, focusing instead on providing what little comfort he could.

Finally, the shaking slowed, then stopped altogether. Blaine took the proffered tissue from Kurt's hand, dabbing gently at his tear-streaked face. "I'm sorry," he said hoarsely, glancing over at Kurt. "I think I've needed to do that for a while."

Kurt handed him another tissue and watched with soft eyes as Blaine cleaned himself up.

Blaine let out a shuddering breath before speaking. "I told you that my family is, kind of complicated," he started, and Kurt nodded in affirmation. Blaine bit his lip. "The thing is, it wasn't always that way," he explained. "It's just me and my parents, and in a lot of ways, I was like the third adult in the house, you know? They always listened to what I had to say when we had disagreements, or were making important decisions. I never felt like I didn't matter just because I was a kid, like a lot of my friends did."

Blaine paused, taking a few deep breaths before continuing. Kurt watched patiently.

"I…in June. The end of June. That's when I told them that—" Blaine broke off. Kurt rose silently and poured him another cup of tea, lukewarm by now. "Thank you," Blaine said softly, before picking his narrative back up.

"They were completely silent the whole time. They're not…homophobic, really, but I guess it changes things when your only son tells you something like that. That he's gay. And you didn't have a clue."

Kurt watched with concern as Blaine's grip on the mug tightened.

"They've never come out and said that they're disappointed," he explained. "But it's like they have no idea who I am or how to relate to me anymore. When I went back to school and started getting harassed, they said all the right things, but it was like they were reading from a script. And it—it was so obvious that they were saying what they thought they were supposed to, but it just felt so _hollow_ and we all knew it.

"And then this happened," Blaine gestured listlessly at his battered face. "And they asked me what I wanted to do. I told them I couldn't go back to that school, so they withdrew me."

He paused for so long that Kurt began to wonder if he was going to continue at all.

"I'm still me, and they can't see that," Blaine said finally. "But I know that no matter what happens, I'm their son, and they love me and want me to be safe.

"It's just been a really long time since they've said that to me in a way that makes it sound like more than just words."

* * *

><p>Blaine insisted on helping Kurt clean up the dishes they'd used for tea. "I cried all over your kitchen, it's the least I could do," he joked self-deprecatingly, carrying his plate and mug to the sink and picking up a dishtowel. Kurt shook his head, smiling, and passed each freshly-washed dish or utensil over to Blaine to dry.<p>

It wasn't until Blaine was polishing the last spoon that Kurt realized he was humming.

"Blaine?" he asked carefully.

"Hmm?"

"Would you—" he paused, trying to think of the best way to ask.

Blaine looked over. "Would I what?"

Kurt looked over, meeting Blaine's eyes.

Still beautiful. He took a deep breath. "Would you sing for me? I've been wondering what your voice sounds like."

Blaine smiled shyly, looking down at the floor. "Right now?" he asked.

Kurt nodded. "Whatever you want to sing. Whatever you were just humming."

Blaine's smile grew. "You might recognize it, seeing as you picked it out."

And right there in Kurt's kitchen, Blaine began to sing.

"_I'm not ready for love, I'm not ready for peace…"_

Kurt listened, mesmerized.

Blaine's voice was gorgeous. He had known Blaine must be pretty good, for Shelby to have let him in right away, but he had no idea that Blaine's voice would be so clear and beautiful.

And haunting.

As Blaine closed his eyes, Kurt felt a shudder ripple through him.

He could so easily fall for this boy.

"…_You should be held, but I'm not ready to."_

The room was silent. Slowly, Kurt began to clap.


	4. Chapter 4

I feel as though I've been saying this every chapter, but things...got long. But here's a new one—

**Trigger Warnings!:** This chapter is from Blaine's point of view, and while I don't think there is anything in it that's specifically problematic, the tone is darker and more depressed than previous chapters, steering into territory that one might even call self-loathing. If this is not something you want to subject yourself to, you can either skip to the section that begins with 'Carmel's activity period', or you're welcome to message me/leave a review, and I'd be more than happy to send you a detailed summary so that you can rejoin us next chapter. Safety first, kids.

I don't own Glee, or DMB. I own a painful case of writer's block, though. Send happy thoughts :/

* * *

><p>Every morning was the same.<p>

Blaine's phone would buzz on his nightstand at 6:25, stirring him from his listless sleep and half-remembered dreams. Not quite awake, he would pad to his bathroom to splash some water on his face and brush his teeth. If his hair felt particularly unkempt under his questioning hands, he'd spend a few minutes taming it with the conditioning serum his mother had picked up for him back in September—it was store-brand, but it smelled like lilacs. Lilacs were nice.

After finishing his hair, he'd open the medicine cabinet and shake out his daily dose of pills from the three orange cylinders that resided there. One by one, he'd swallow them down with a cup of water from the sink: the little white ones for the headaches, the little yellow one for anxiety, the little pink one for depression. The painkillers were from the hospital, and he'd take a second dose mid-afternoon under the supervision of the school nurse. The latter two were courtesy of the psychiatrist his mother had dragged him to see immediately after The Incident, as they were calling it.

Well, not _immediately_ after. But Blaine had spent enough time around adults to know that strings had been pulled somewhere in order to get him an appointment at 9:30 on a Monday morning.

Once the painkillers and brainkillers had been taken as prescribed, Blaine would head back to his room and pick out his clothes for the day. Long sleeves, usually; sometimes a cardigan or sweater thrown over a t-shirt. Jeans, shoes. If it was supposed to rain that day, he'd toss an extra shirt into his backpack, along with his cell phone, iPod, keys, and homework.

Ready as he could be for the day, he'd slip quietly down the stairs to fill up a travel mug with coffee and grab a granola bar to pick at while he drove. To Carmel, the past few days, but before enrolling, his destinations had been more varied—a follow-up visit at the hospital, his old school to clean out his locker, new schools that he might have chosen instead. The Zoo, one morning, just because he could.

Until he locked the front door behind him, his entire morning routine was completed in shadow; the meager dawn light that managed to filter in through the westward-facing windows providing the scant illumination that he needed. He'd do the same thing at night—waiting until the last rays of the setting sun were fading before showering and getting ready for bed.

He knew it was childish, that he'd already seen the damage done to him by fists and shoes and somebody's class ring under the unforgiving florescent lights of the hospital.

It was just so much easier to pretend he was fine when he didn't have to look at himself.

* * *

><p>Blaine wasn't sure how he felt about Carmel yet.<p>

On the downside:

•The academics were more advanced than his old school, which meant a lot of studying and make-up work and not always understanding what his teachers were talking about.

•As far as the school itself went…well. He hadn't _actually _gotten lost yet, but he was getting really tired of the constant helpless _confusion_ that seemed to be ever-present. As if it were some physical entity, waiting outside the classroom door for him each time he had to try and remember which direction his next class was in. As if he were barely treading water, while everyone else around him swam without effort.

•Worst of all: he didn't really know too many people yet. Which meant that he spent a large part of his day avoiding the other students' eyes as they stared at him; tried not to listen as they whispered about him, his face, his hands, his sudden appearance in their midst.

On the bright side:

•Nobody had called him horrible names under their breath, or shoved him hard enough to hurt (always accidently, of course) in gym class, or left straight-camp pamphlets in his locker, or cornered him in the parking lot at a school dance in order to beat him nearly unconscious.

Which really kind of tipped the odds in Carmel's favor, now that he was actually thinking about it.

Plus, Carmel had Kurt.

* * *

><p>If Blaine was struggling to come to terms with his feelings about his new school, it was nothing compared to how confused he was when it came to Kurt Hummel. He had literally never met anyone even remotely like him before: put-together, confident, honest, witty, intelligent, compassionate… Blaine had barely known him a week, and he was already convinced that Kurt was too good to be true. People with all of those qualities just didn't exist outside of books and movies.<p>

It didn't help that Kurt was breathtakingly gorgeous, or that he seemed totally unconcerned that everyone at the school knew he was gay, or that he was genuinely _nice._ Or that he was incredibly well-liked—every time he saw Kurt in the halls, he was in deep conversation with a different person. And Blaine had yet to figure out the social hierarchy at Carmel, but the few times he'd walked down the hall with Kurt, it seemed like nearly everyone they passed had smiled or waved at him. Somehow, Kurt had managed to smile or wave back without missing a beat in their conversation, or ever making Blaine feel like his attention was divided, a social skill that Blaine envied.

Plus, Kurt had this way of _looking_ at him sometimes. Like he only saw the best parts of Blaine, instead of the wreck he had become. It made Blaine want to be better.

It would have been different, if Blaine had met him _before. _

A year ago, or maybe even a month ago, Kurt would have been the type of person that Blaine would have idolized; crushed on from afar—he was pretty good at accepting when other people were out of his league. Kurt's initials probably would have been written over and over with his own, somewhere secret that nobody else would ever, _ever _see.

Now…he didn't really know what he felt.

Part of him wanted to _hate _Kurt for being so open and confident and comfortable with who he was, for being able to walk down the hall or into a dark auditorium without worrying about who might be lying in wait for him. For being the type of person who reached out to fix a virtual stranger's hair without thinking about it, unconcerned that the other person might flinch or push him away or punch him, because why would anyone do that? For knowing exactly what to say and do, when to push and when to back off. For reducing Blaine to a crying, quivering mess who spilled his family's dirty laundry to a boy he barely knew.

The rest of him was more honest—he couldn't blame Kurt for being everything that Blaine wished he was brave enough to be.

* * *

><p>He hadn't lied when he told Kurt that he was on the waiting list at Dalton Academy. What he hadn't told Kurt was that the Head of Admissions had looked at Blaine, scarred and young in his chair, with beautiful soft eyes. Meeting his gaze—the first adult to do so since he'd left the hospital—she'd told him gently that a spot would probably be available for him by the spring, and definitely by the fall, but that she would press the School Board to make a special exception for him, if he needed a safe place to go. That she'd need a little more information on the personal situation that brought him to Dalton, but that if he'd let her, she'd go to bat for him.<p>

Blaine, smiling sadly, had thanked her with all possible politeness. And had turned her down.

* * *

><p>The staring was beginning to die down.<p>

People still _looked _at him in class and in the halls—which was sort of a given, between his face and his New Kid status—but Blaine could tell the tide was turning. There was no open hostility being leveled in his direction either, and the short list of people who were beginning to look at him with something other than pity or morbid curiosity was slowly expanding: the security guard posted at the main entrance each morning. Most of his teachers. Ben and Andrea (although the latter had a tendency to purse her lips in disapproval whenever Blaine missed a step). Mary, his lab partner in 2nd period Chem.

Kurt, who was smiling sweetly at him from his seat as Blaine rushed between the rows of desks, trying to make it to his seat before the bell rang.

He just barely made it, sliding into his chair and peeling the post it note Kurt had left for him off his desk right as class was beginning. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Blaine cradled the note in his hand, out of sight from the teacher, until the DVD player was turned on and the room was—once again—shrouded in darkness.

He vaguely wondered what he and Kurt would do when Mrs. Jennings went back to actually teaching history.

Kurt's handwriting was flowing and flawless as usual: _How was your morning session with our Most Esteemed Drill Sergeants? ;)_

Blaine smiled. As comparisons went, it wasn't an unfair one.

_Apparently I'm less hopeless than yesterday_, he wrote back, taking pains to keep his handwriting legible. _Ben said that if I can make it through Grey Street "without any major or moderate errors", I can practice that one with you guys onstage._

Nobody had been more surprised by Blaine's overnight improvement than Blaine himself had been. Andrea had chalked it up to muscle memory, while Ben was convinced that forcing Blaine to watch the number six times in a row on the music room computer had triggered some sort of choreographic osmosis.

"You're free to use the monitor to study the routines whenever you need to," he'd informed Blaine. "Just make sure to log off when you're done. Sarabeth's dad works for the Department of Defense and secured the computer so that nobody can offload the videos, but that's hardly useful if people without the password can access them."

"The password is 'Rachel'," Andrea had told him solemnly, "and whatever you do, _don't _ask Shelby why. She won't tell you, for one thing, and she'll be extra-critical for days."

Blaine was beginning to hope that there was a handbook explaining Vocal Adrenaline that he'd missed, somewhere.

Kurt's response was back. _That's fantastic! Ben is great, but his compliments are hard-won—there's no way he would have said that unless you earned it. And I'm sure you'll be fine; no toe-touching in that one ;) See you onstage._

Blaine swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

* * *

><p>"You're not paying attention," Andrea chastised sharply. "Watch me run through it again, before you try it." As commanded, Blaine's eyes locked on Andrea as she danced.<p>

He couldn't help but wonder what his parents would do if he had a nervous breakdown on his third day of school.

Probably double his appointments with the psychiatrist who looked at Blaine's paperwork instead of at Blaine. Enroll him in the charter school he'd looked at the week before, the one that used the word 'Citizenship' four separate times in its Mission Statement and smelled like burnt rubber.

Maybe they'd pull him out of school permanently. He could spend all the time he would have wasted in school at museums and libraries, making his own educational field trips. The imaginary chaperones would always be nice, and they would let him stop on the way back home for French fries whenever he wanted. He could visit the lion cubs at the Zoo twice a week, until they knew him and came romping over to the fence to greet him. He'd sneak them bits of steak and they'd let him pet their fur, like kittens. Maybe they'd adopt him, and he could stay there forever.

"Are you ready?" Andrea asked.

Blaine jumped—he'd forgotten that anyone else was there.

Ben looked at him with some concern. "Are you okay? We have time for a break, if you need one."

Blaine shook his head.

He wasn't entirely certain which question he was answering.

Andrea and Ben spoke in hushed whispers for a moment, before Andrea left the room and Ben sat down next to Blaine. "I know it's not easy," Ben began sympathetically, laying a hand on Blaine's shoulder.

Blaine tried, with everything he had, not to flinch.

"But it's only been two days," Ben continued, oblivious to his overwhelming discomfort. "We don't expect you to do everything right, even though it might seem that way. You're doing just fine, you just need to relax." When Blaine didn't immediately respond, Ben took his hand away.

Blaine exhaled sharply.

"All of the movements in all of our choreography are fast and precise," Ben explained, "which makes it look difficult. But that's actually helpful—there's no room for interpretation, no need to think about it. You just move when you're supposed to, and you've done your job. Let's try it again."

Blaine ran through the piece three more times, and Ben pronounced him ready to participate onstage.

He wished he could tell Kurt. Maybe if he didn't run away from his life to live with a pride of lions, he'd muster up the courage to ask Kurt for his phone number. Kurt seemed like the type who enjoyed talking on the phone. He preferred texting, but for Kurt, he could make an effort.

It occurred to Blaine that he had just gone the entire 40 minute lesson without saying a single word.

* * *

><p>Carmel's activity period didn't begin until twenty minutes after classes ended. Somehow, Blaine ended up in the mostly empty auditorium fifteen minutes early, standing in the same spot in the wings that he'd been in when he first saw Vocal Adrenaline perform. Unconsciously, his fingers crept up and twined themselves into the leather cord around his neck, grasping the brass pendant that hung from it out of habit.<p>

His grandmother had bought it for him at a street fair two summers before, when he was spending his annual two week visit with her at her home in Toronto. She'd caught him marveling at the intricate carving, a phoenix, and he'd looked wistfully down at his shoelaces, waiting for her to ask "Don't you think necklaces are a little girly?' (like his father) or "Why don't you pick out a belt instead, there are some nice ones over there" (like his mother).

Instead, she'd opened her beaded change purse and had carefully counted her loonies and toonies into the artisan's outstretched hand. She was quite a bit shorter than Blaine, even then, and he'd had to bend down so that she could slip the cord over his head.

He almost never left the house without it, only slipping it off if they were swimming in gym class or in the evenings to shower. He wasn't under any illusions about the necklace being good luck or having any special properties, but even so. It meant something.

"You're Blaine Anderson, I'm guessing?"

Blaine's eyes snapped up. A fantastically coifed older boy with piercing eyes was standing in front of him, smirking gently at his inattention. After a brief second of alarm—_he was alone with a stranger who was bigger and stronger and blocking his path, _why _was he alone—_Blaine's brain kicked in, reminding him that he knew who the boy was, even if he couldn't remember his name: he was Vocal Adrenaline's lead singer. Blaine had seen him perform on Thursday, and he'd been heavily featured in the videos Ben had insisted he watch.

The boy was watching him expectantly. Oh, right. Blaine hadn't answered yet. "Yes, that's me," he responded politely. Finally.

The boy's smile grew, and even in the shadows Blaine could tell that it was perfect. "I wanted to formally introduce myself before rehearsal started," he said, offering his hand. "I'm Jesse St. James. I've been the lead singer here for two and a half years. Welcome to Carmel."

Blaine reached out tentatively and shook Jesse's hand. "Nice to meet you," he replied with a small smile, encouraged by Jesse's friendly demeanor._ Kurt's mentioned him_, Blaine remembered suddenly. _They're probably friends._

And now that he thought about it, Jesse was the only other student Kurt had mentioned besides Ben and Andrea, whom Blaine had brought up first. An irrational flash of jealousy spiked through him, but was gone before he had the chance to process it.

"I hear you're going to be joining us for a number today," Jesse was saying, tilting his head slightly and studying Blaine's face in an almost curious manner.

Blaine's smile vanished. "How did you…" he began weakly, trailing off as Jesse's smile took on an unreadable quality, something feline and mysterious.

"Andrea and I have a standing midday dance rehearsal four days a week," he explained. "We're very close."

Blaine nodded. The expression that had made him wary had vanished, replaced by an expression of such affability that Blaine couldn't help but wonder whether he'd imagined it.

"Anyway, Shelby says that you're very talented. I'm looking forward to seeing what you can do," Jesse concluded. "I have to finish preparing for rehearsal, so I'll let Kurt make you feel welcome."

He nodded courteously to Blaine before turning around to face the stage. Where Kurt appeared seconds later, boots clicking on way up the steps.

"Blaine, are you—" Kurt stopped short when he saw Blaine and Jesse. "Hi. Sorry, I didn't realize that you two had met."

"Hello, Kurt," Jesse said pleasantly. "I was just getting to know our newest member. He's dancing with us today, have you heard?"

Kurt smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Wonderful," he said, his voice slightly more breathless than Blaine was used to hearing. "I'm sure he'll be great."

Jesse smiled back at Blaine. "I'll see you around then," he offered, patting Kurt on the shoulder before retreating further backstage and exiting through a door Blaine hadn't seen before.

Kurt watched him go, a complicated expression on his face. Blaine frowned.

There was something he was missing.

Kurt shook his head and smiled shyly at Blaine. "I brought you something," he declared enticingly, holding his bag up in front of him. Intrigued, Blaine followed him to the sink backstage, more at ease now that Kurt's smile was real again. Unclipping his bag, Kurt dug through it before producing a slim bottle and tossing it to Blaine.

Blaine caught it awkwardly. "Sunscreen?" he asked, reading the label. "It's October. In Ohio."

"And yet our stage lights are producing Havana in July," Kurt volleyed back sweetly. "Trust me, you're going to want that. Don't worry, it's sweat-proof and moisturizing. Mine is SPF ten billion, but I figured you'd be fine with the standard 30."

Blaine swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. "Thank you," he said sincerely. "You didn't have to do that."

Kurt shook his head. "Oh, I'm not even done yet," he promised. His mouth twisted nervously. "I'll understand if you don't want it, but I swear it's clean," he prefaced, before pulling a black shirt out of his back and passing it to Blaine.

A black, short-sleeved shirt.

"Like I said, it gets really hot onstage," Kurt explained, as Blaine ran his fingers over the incredibly soft fabric. "Carmel has an Environmental Club that pedals on energy-generating bicycles four days a week, just to offset our Carbon Footprint. I knew you'd make it through the number with the captains earlier, and I remembered you were wearing long sleeves, so…"

He cleared his throat. Blaine blinked rapidly before looking back up at Kurt, who was fixing his hair idly. "Like I said, you don't have to wear it if you don't want to, but it's yours if you do."

The t-shirt really was the softest material Blaine had ever felt.

He couldn't wear it; not until the bruises faded and the scars healed. He didn't want anyone to see him the way he was now.

Maybe he'd save it, until he was better.

If Kurt noticed his internal distress, he was polite enough not to mention it. "One last item," he added. "Do you wear contacts?"

Blaine shook his head. Kurt smiled cryptically, holding out his hand. "You do now."

Blaine took the two small, liquid-filled containers from Kurt and peered at them closely. Each held a thin lens, a few shades darker than Blaine thought they should be. "Are these colored contacts?" he asked Kurt. "Because I…kind of like my eyes just fine."

It was unfair how beautiful Kurt looked when he laughed.

"I like your eyes just fine too," he said simply. "Those are tinted, to protect your retinas from the lighting. We all wear them; Shelby doesn't allow sunglasses onstage, since they leave tan lines you can see from the audience. Go ahead and try them out."

Blaine peeled open one of the little plastic tubs. "She's that concerned about something that small?" he asked quietly, gingerly attempting to put the lens in his right eye.

Kurt picked up on the subtext of his question. "Your bruises will be pretty faded by our first competition," he said reassuringly, turning to the sink and washing his hands. "Enough that I can cover them up for you, if you want. Not even Shelby will be able to tell."

Blaine grimaced, his eyes watering as the contact stayed stubbornly on the tip of his finger. "You must have better stage makeup than my old school," he said darkly. "You could see that stuff from space."

Kurt shook his head. "I'd never subject you to something so horrible as school-owned cosmetics," he vowed.

He looked at Blaine with a frown, watching him struggle. "You aren't having much luck with those," he observed.

Blaine gestured helplessly. "I've never done this before," he admitted.

Kurt nodded. "Everyone has trouble at first."

There was a long pause.

Kurt looked at him, a careful expression on his face. "I could help you, if you want," he offered quietly. "If you trust me to."

Blaine looked at him.

He'd never seen Kurt look so unsure before. His head was dipped shyly, as if he were afraid Blaine might say no or get upset. His delicate fingers were clasped together in front of him as he waited for Blaine to answer.

He looked so…

Gentle.

"You're always giving me things," Blaine observed softly, watching the way Kurt rocked back and forth slightly under his gaze.

Kurt slowly met his eyes.

"Does that bother you?" he asked.

Blaine knew that he could brush off the deeper meaning inherent in Kurt's question. Say something about replacing the sunscreen, or hosting the next tea party. Kurt would give him that out, if he wanted it.

He didn't hesitate. "No," he said quietly. "It's just, new. For me."

He held out the contacts.

Kurt took them with steady hands. Then slowly, carefully, he eased the lenses in one at a time.

Blaine blinked as Kurt stepped back, as first the right, then the left contact settled into place. Everything was darker, more shadowed than before. In the center of everything stood Kurt, watching for his reaction to his newly-altered world.

He smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

Editing fail-why do you log me out after I've made all the miniscule changes I wanted to, FF net?

Long story short: I don't own anything, you're all awesome, and kindly keep me in your thoughts this Sunday, should you have a spare moment-I'm a native New Yorker with several hours worth of stressful, potentially career-altering exams.

* * *

><p>As a rule, the more time and effort Kurt put into a meal, the more time and effort Burt would put into attempting to mask his distaste for the final product. Consequently, it was with minimal complaining on Burt's part that the two of them sat down to dinner on the Wednesday before Sectionals, bowls heaped moderately high with stewed lentils, ratatouille, and unbuttered slices of French baguette. Whole grain, of course.<p>

"Smells…good, kid," Burt praised awkwardly, hand hovering over his spoon and fork as if he were unsure which would be more useful. "Can't wait. Where did you hide the salt?"

Kurt rolled his eyes fondly. "They're spiced, Dad," he pointed out, picking up his fork with a knowing expression on his face. "Salt would upset the delicate concentration of flavoring. At least try them first."

Burt frowned, but gamely scooped a few vegetables onto his fork. Kurt smiled sweetly in return.

"Oh," he remembered suddenly, "I mended your flannel shirts, the ones that were in the laundry basket. They're on top of the dryer."

Burt swallowed half of his bread in one bite. "You didn't have to do that," he protested.

"I really did," Kurt disagreed, "the sleeve on the crimson one was about three threads away from separating completely. It wouldn't have survived the washing machine."

Burt shook his head. "You know what I meant. Fixing my shirts, doing the grocery shopping, making fancy dinners. You only get one day off a week; you don't need to spend it doing stuff around the house. You work too hard."

"_You_ work too hard," Kurt retorted. "I sit and take notes for eight hours, then I sing and dance while smiling like a particularly ebullient lunatic."

Burt stared. "All right, I'm not entirely sure what you just said," he admitted. "But don't try and write off everything you do like it doesn't matter. You think I don't notice how tired you are when you come home, or how much ice we go through when rehearsals run late? Or how you stay up until one in the morning, doing your homework, when half of your teammates don't even go to class?"

He reached across the table and ruffled Kurt's hair, causing Kurt to squawk indignantly and immediately begin trying to rectify the damage. "All I'm saying is, don't act like the things you care about aren't important. Anything that means something to you matters, because—"

"Because I matter," Kurt interrupted amiably, having heard the particular turn of phrase dozens of times. "I know, Dad. And you matter, too. Which is why I'm telling you that you need to stop squishing your lentils, and eat them. Out of love."

He looked imploringly at Burt, who merely sighed. "I'll tell ya, kid, that face is only going to work on me for so long," he warned, taking a tentative bite of his meal. "You'll be off at college in a few years."

"I'll Skype you twice a week," Kurt responded serenely, satisfied that Burt was eating. "And send you care packages filled with organic proteins."

* * *

><p>The subject of Blaine didn't arise until dessert. Kurt spooned a single scoop of organic frozen yogurt onto each bowl of baked apple, ignoring Burt's grumbling about 'having a live-in dietician for a son, why can't you be out doing drugs like everyone else your age', but for a pointed look at Burt's latest cholesterol report on the refrigerator. "So," Burt began, as Kurt added extra cinnamon, "how are things shaping up for Saturday?"<p>

Kurt shrugged. "We've been ready for a while," he said nonchalantly. "Vocal Adrenaline hasn't lost a Sectionals competition since 1974, so we're not too worried."

Burt nodded. "How about your new little friend?" he wanted to know. "This is his first competition, you said?"

Kurt nodded back, smiling a little at the thought of Blaine's quiet excitement that morning. Their note passing in History had come to an unfortunate end—the week of boring documentaries was over, and they were now expected to actually pay attention and occasionally _participate_—but that hadn't stopped Blaine from leaning forward and hissing into Kurt's ear as Mrs. Jennings passed back the latest round of pop quizzes.

"_Shelby called me into her office this morning_," he'd whispered quickly, his breath warm on Kurt's cheek. "_I'm singing from backstage for 'Rehab', but she says I can perform the first two numbers with everyone else this weekend."_

Kurt had given him a discreet thumbs-up, knowing how hard Blaine had been working in order to catch up on the choreography. He was still missing gym and lunch every day in order to meet with Andrea and Ben, and though he'd been given permission from Shelby to merely observe during his first Dakota Stanley rehearsal, he had done his best to follow along with the steps from his spot in the wings.

Out of Dakota's line of sight, where he couldn't be singled out and yelled at, of course.

Burt broke Kurt's reverie. "Did he come over today?" he asked. "I thought you said he might."

Kurt's smile faded a bit. "No," he answered, "he had some stuff he needed to get done today." Burt nodded, accepting Kurt's lie.

Kurt actually had no idea what Blaine had done after school. After their class had ended—and Kurt had verbally conveyed his congratulations—he'd suggested that the two of them go to a movie or hit the mall after school in celebration. Rather than agreeing, the way Kurt had hoped he would, Blaine had paled dramatically, eyes dropping to the floor as he stammered an obvious lie about having to run some errands for his mother and catch up on homework that afternoon. Kurt, somewhat embarrassed, hadn't pressed the point. Blaine had squeezed his arm in parting—one of the only times Kurt could think of that Blaine had been the one to initiate contact between the two of them—so Kurt didn't think he had upset him, or even that he was necessarily being outright rejected.

Still, he couldn't deny that Blaine seemed to have mixed-signaling down to a science, or that being lied to had sort of stung.

He shook his head, forcing himself to smile at his dad. "I'll make sure you meet him at some point," he promised, getting up from the table and dumping the majority of his dessert into the garbage disposal. "I'd offer to introduce you this weekend, but—"

"I know," Burt interrupted, sounding guilty. "I wish I could be there, I really do."

Kurt turned the faucet on, rinsing his bowl. "I know, Dad. It's all right. Save your cheering for Regionals, okay?"

Burt snorted. "Who said anything about cheering? I was just hoping to get another chance to put names to faces—twenty cars parked in front of my house last month, and that Jesse kid is the only one I could pick out of a lineup."

Kurt didn't respond, glad to be facing the sink instead of his dad.

Burt sighed, getting up and dropping his bowl into the sink next to Kurt's. "I have a few more hours of paperwork to get done tonight," he told Kurt, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "I'll be upstairs. Holler if you need anything, all right?"

Kurt leaned sideways into his dad's hug. "Sure, Dad," he replied, forcing his voice to sound steady. Ruffling Kurt's hair one last time, Burt left the kitchen.

Kurt stood still for a moment, blinking rapidly, before gathering the rest of the dishes.

* * *

><p>It had been a light homework week, and for once, Kurt was actually ahead of where he should have been in his studies. Which meant that instead of writing horrible lab reports for Chemistry or annotated bibliographies for yet another English paper, Kurt was doing yoga in front of the TV when his phone went off. Dropping gracefully out of tree pose and pausing the DVD player, he scrambled to grab the device off of the coffee table before it went to voice mail.<p>

Snatching up the phone, his mouth went dry: the picture on the screen, indicating the caller, was the one he had snapped the day before under the pretext of 'having a reference for your skin tone when I mix up some concealer for this weekend'. Hazel eyes peeking out from under thick, dark eyelashes; mouth turned up slightly in an unsure smile.

Blaine Anderson was calling him.

After a couple seconds of blatantly staring at the screen, it occurred to Kurt that he should probably answer.

He tapped a button and held the phone up to his ear. "Hello?" he asked quickly, inwardly cursing the breathlessness in his voice that always seemed to crop up at the most inopportune times.

"_Kurt?_" the voice on the other end crackled back, and it seemed as though Kurt wasn't the only one suffering from that particular malady. Which did make him feel a bit better, honestly. _"It's Blaine."_

This, of course, Kurt already knew. But pointing that out felt rude, so… "Hi, Blaine," he offered, thankfully sounding more like himself. "How are you?"

Blaine coughed. _"Um, actually…sorry to call you this late in the day,"_ he offered apologetically.

Kurt glanced at the clock on the cable box. "Blaine, it's barely seven, don't worry about it," he said reassuringly. "What's the matter?"

He heard a small sigh. "_I think there might be something wrong with my car," _he admitted, _"and I remembered you said you worked at your dad's garage. I wasn't going to bother you, but I don't really know anything useful beyond changing the tires—Dad's been making threatening noises about us rebuilding an engine or something, but I don't think that'll be happening until a school break, or maybe next summer, or—"_

Adorable as Blaine's rambling was, Kurt could hear the distress in his tone slowly rising. "Blaine," he cut him off gently, "it's fine; I'm happy to help. What's wrong?"

"_The little oil light on the dashboard lit up while I was driving today,"_ Blaine explained. _"I'm pretty sure they changed the oil at the service station when I got it inspected in August, though, so I didn't think it needed an oil change already."_

Kurt curled up on the couch, switching the phone to his other ear. "Is that the only warning light lit up on the dashboard?" he asked.

"_I think so,_" Blaine confirmed. _"At least, it's the only one lit up that normally isn't."_

Kurt nodded slowly, before remembering that Blaine couldn't see him. "Do me a favor and check the pavement under your car," he requested, mentally running through the few potential problems Blaine's car could be facing. It was a pretty short list, but Blaine wouldn't know that.

There was a short pause. _"There's a small spot on the garage floor," _ Blaine reported, sounding nervous. _"I'm the only one who parks in this spot, and it looks fresh. Is that really bad?"_

Kurt couldn't help but smile. "Probably not," he answered kindly, "but why don't I come over and take a look at it? If it's something I can't fix myself, I can tow it to the shop and have one of the other mechanics look at it in the morning."

He heard Blaine's quiet intake of breath. "_I don't want you to go to any trouble_," he protested, but Kurt could sense that he was wavering.

"It's not a problem," he promised. "Just let me check with my dad, and make sure he's all right with me taking the tow truck. It's at the shop, but that's only a few minutes away, and we keep a jump kit in the back with everything I'd need for an onsite repair.

"Just so you know, though," he added, "laugh at my outfit, and you're dead to me."

Blaine laughed softly over the phone. "_I wouldn't dream of it."_

* * *

><p>When Kurt explained the situation to his dad, he was given permission to take the tow truck from the garage, under the strict stipulation that he was to call Burt if the problem turned out to be serious enough to actually <em>require<em> towing, and again when he dropped the truck off.

"It'll still be light out when you stop there now," Burt had warned, "but it's not a place I want you hanging around after dark, floodlights and cameras or not."

Blaine's house was about a thirty minute drive from the garage, and as Burt had predicted, the sun had long since set by the time Kurt pulled into Blaine's driveway. It was a nice house, quietly expensive, with a spacious three-car garage attached. The doors were all open—Blaine's car was one of the two parked inside.

Blaine himself had been sitting on the porch, and he hurried down the walkway to greet Kurt as he climbed down from the truck, lugging the tool kit. True to his word, he didn't bat an eyelash at Kurt's grease-smeared coveralls. "Thank you so much again for coming," he gushed, looking a little sheepish. "I'm sure it's just me being an idiot, but—"

"No, don't you even," Kurt cut him off, unable to form an appropriate hand gesture to go with it due to the toolbox. "You did the right thing. If something's wrong and you don't know what it is, it is never a bad idea to call in the experts."

He flashed a grin at Blaine. "And luckily for you, _I_ happen to be a professional. Start the car for me?"

Blaine did. His description of the dash lights had been accurate, and Kurt turned off the car and passed back the keys. Digging a flashlight out of his tool kit, he bent down and switched it on, taking a look at the cement flooring underneath the car.

"Well, the good news is that the wet spot I asked you about over the phone is engine oil, rather than something incredibly dire, and the amount that's under here is a pretty good indication that you caught it fairly early," Kurt noted, standing back up and brushing the dust from his knees.

Blaine smiled thinly. "And the bad news?" he prompted.

Kurt shrugged. "I don't know yet—depending on what it is, I could fix it in five minutes, or have to bring it in. Before I get started, though, do you have any old towels or blankets that you don't mind ruining? For the floor," he explained, smiling a bit at Blaine's confused look. "Oil has a tendency to end up everywhere."

While Blaine darted back into the house, Kurt took a closer look at the oil pan, tracing it gently with gloved fingers. Nothing seemed abnormal, which meant he would definitely be digging around in the engine. Beautiful.

Blaine returned while Kurt was raising the hood of the car. Rather than blankets or towels, he was carrying a stack of clothing—three maroon sweaters and two white polo shirts.

Kurt's joke about spring closet cleaning died in his mouth when he noticed the identical logo over the heart of each piece of clothing.

Blaine must have noticed Kurt's silence. "We didn't have uniforms, like most Catholic schools, but the dress code was still really strict. Unless you wore a button-down shirt and a tie, you were pretty much stuck with what they sold at the school store," he explained quietly. He shook his head. "I don't know why I still have these," he mused. "I should have thrown them out, but I just…didn't."

Kurt nodded silently, eyes soft as he watched Blaine gather his thoughts.

Finally, Blaine looked up from the stack of clothing in his arms. Meeting Kurt's gaze, he smiled wickedly. "Feel free to accidently spill something really flammable all over these," he offered, passing everything to Kurt and taking a couple steps back.

Kurt beamed.

Once the sweaters were spread out on the floor under the car, Kurt took one of the shirts and began selectively de-greasing the most probable trouble spots in the engine. "My dad was asking about you earlier," he mentioned offhandedly, watching Blaine shift his weight out of the corner of his eye. "He wanted to know if you were nervous about this weekend."

Blaine exhaled softly. "Ask me again on Saturday morning," he said dryly, making Kurt laugh.

"Just wait until Saturday night," he offered, "that's when—"

Kurt was cut off as the door leading into the house opened suddenly. "Blaine, good, I thought you'd—"

Everyone stopped short. Kurt ducked out from underneath the hood of Blaine's car to see a pretty woman who was very obviously Blaine's mother standing in the doorframe.

She was short—shorter than Blaine, in any case—with curly dark hair falling well past her shoulders. Her clothing was immaculate; her made-up lips slightly opened in surprise. Her eyes were darker than Blaine's, but Kurt noted the way they darted back and forth between himself and Blaine, as if they weren't entirely sure where to look.

He couldn't help his immeidate thought that perhaps that particular nervous quality was a genetic trait.

Being a great favorite of his father's female customers had helped Kurt develop a certain charm when interacting with strange adults, and he quickly assessed the situation. Blaine's mother did look startled to see anyone but Blaine in the garage, but didn't necessarily seem upset, at least. Donning his most gentle smile, Kurt removed the glove from his right hand and held it out politely, walking over. "Hi, Mrs. Anderson," he greeted her, voice pleasant. "I'm Kurt; I go to Carmel with Blaine. He was having some car trouble, so I said I'd take a look at it for him."

Blaine's mother returned the gesture, though her smile had a puzzled quality to it. "Hello, Kurt," she responded, clearly still thrown off a bit by Kurt's unexpected presence. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize that Blaine—"

She paused. Kurt looked over at Blaine, who was watching the interaction with an unreadable expression on his face.

Mrs. Anderson took a deep, stilted breath. "I don't want to bother you boys while you're working," she explained, addressing Blaine in an almost unnaturally cheerful tone, "I just wanted to make sure you gave Dr. Weinstein the check I gave you this afternoon."

Blaine nodded, eyes dropping to the floor.

Mrs. Anderson nodded back. Looking back at Kurt, she flashed him a disingenuous smile—one that Kurt recognized from other adults as the expression of a parent bracing herself. "You boys have fun," she instructed. "Blaine, it's a school night, so please be home by ten if you're still going out."

Waving nervously, she backed into the house, shutting the door behind her.

Kurt stared at the closed door contemplatively. That had been…

Interesting.

He glanced over at Blaine, who was watching him with a guarded expression.

He ought to say something reassuring; maybe tell him that his mother seemed nice, or tell a self-deprecating story about being terrible at meeting parents (mostly untrue, but Blaine didn't have to know that). The time Ryan's mother had walked in on the two of them in the middle of their first (and, consequently, _only_) kiss, maybe, or the time he'd gone to his female lab partner's house in the eighth grade to work on a science project, and her mother had made them keep the door open and found excuses to check on them every ten minutes. Anything that might relax Blaine or make him feel better. He opened his mouth.

Blaine beat him to it. "I'm seeing a shrink," he blurted out, cheeks tinged with pink.

Kurt froze, caught completely off guard. "I'm sorry?" he managed, doing his best not to stare at Blaine.

Blaine shifted uncomfortably. "Dr. Weinstein. He's the psychiatrist my parents are making me see. That's why I couldn't—today, I mean, when I said I was busy," he stammered. "I had an appointment, but it's not the sort of thing that you…just tell people when they ask you to hang out."

Kurt nodded slowly. "Do you like him?" he asked curiously.

Blaine shook his head. "He's kind of…"

His voice trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.

"Kind of an ass?" Kurt suggested coyly. He laughed at Blaine's shocked expression. "It's a rather common failing in the profession, I'm afraid," he lamented. "I saw a grief counselor for a year after my Mom died. The second one, I liked, but the first one was this horrible condescending man whose office smelled like disinfectant. My memory of this isn't very clear, you understand, but apparently I bit him during my third appointment when he tried to tell me that my Mom would have wanted me to talk about my feelings."

Blaine burst out laughing, and Kurt smirked. "I was very discerning, even then," he acknowledged, putting his glove back on and walking back over to the engine.

Blaine watched him work, looking more at ease. "I'm sorry I lied, though," he admitted, picking up the oil-stained shirt from the ground and handing it back to Kurt.

Kurt shrugged easily. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," he reminded Blaine. "But I'll stand by what I said before: if something's wrong, it is never a bad idea to call in an expert. Though," he added, "if you don't like Dr. Weinstein, you might be better off finding someone else."

He took a close look at the engine, and smiled. The valve cover was definitely greasier than he left it.

"So, what were you going to say about Saturday night?" Blaine asked, as Kurt tested the bolts, which were looser than they should have been.

Kurt glanced up. "Post-competition party," he explained, grabbing a wrench and bending back over the valve cover. "It'll be even crazier than usual, since Saturday is Halloween. Do you have a costume?"

"Am I invited?" Blaine wanted to know, running a hand through his hair.

Kurt stared at him. "Of course you are," he said seriously. "You're one of us."

He tightened the next bolt. "Anyway, it's a shame you missed the last party—it was for my birthday, in September. A bunch of us carpooled up to the lake for the day. Normally, that's the sort of thing I would hate—I'm really more of an indoor person—but nobody does a picnic spread like I do. No drinking, since my dad was there, but still."

Blaine looked uncertain. Kurt rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on," he teased, smiling fondly. "You are coming, and you _will _have fun. When was the last time you had fun?"

Blaine smiled back. "A million years ago," he quipped. "All right, you made your point. I'll go. Do you know where I can get a costume by Saturday?"

Kurt looked at him appraisingly. "I have some things that should fit you," he decided. "If you don't have something in mind already, I'll bring you a couple of choices on Friday."

He checked the dipstick: the oil level was too low, but not worryingly so. He grabbed an extra bottle of oil and a funnel from the tool kit. "Jesse's hosting the party this year," he told Blaine. "His parents are hardly ever home, and he lives pretty close to the school—Mockingbird Lane, near—"

"—the Post Office, but not as far as the Farm Market," Blaine recited.

Kurt nearly sloshed the oil all over Blaine's engine.

"I'm assuming Jesse told you that, since those are his directions word-for-word," he noted, working hard to keep his voice even.

Blaine checked his watch. "I'm supposed to be over there at 8:45," he replied. "Andrea told him that I'm still struggling with the last two eight-counts of dancing in the Mika piece, and he offered to help."

His cheeks were slightly flushed again. "I was going to ask you, but we're in different sections."

Kurt nodded, keeping his eyes trained on the filler cap. "Well, I think I'm just about done here," he told Blaine, voice emotionless. "If you leave now, you should make it on time."

Apparently unaware of Kurt's sudden mental shift, Blaine beamed at him. "Thank you so, so much," he said fervently. "I don't know what I would have done without you."

Kurt shrugged, smiling a little despite himself. "Been late," he offered flippantly.

Blaine's smile turned shy. "Can I get you anything?" he wanted to know. "I mean—do you want to clean up in the bathroom, or…I mean, I can just call Jesse and tell him I'm running late, if you want to take a shower or something."

His look of hopeful uncertainty was quite possibly the most adorable thing Kurt had ever seen.

For a moment, he was tempted to take Blaine up on the offer. Still, he did have a curfew, and making Blaine late on purpose would cause more trouble than it was worth. "Thanks, but you should go," he declined. "I _will_ use your sink first though, just to wash my hands. If you don't mind, of course."

Blaine didn't mind. Entering through the door Blaine's mother had used before, the boys slipped out of their shoes and padded in socked feet to the kitchen. Kurt lathered up his hands and arms with lavender soap—moisturized and infused with aloe, he noted with approval—trying to think of the best way to word what he wanted to say.

"Blaine," he began slowly, then stopped.

Blaine tilted his head inquisitively, watching him with big eyes.

Kurt tried again. "Jesse can be rather, blunt, I suppose, at times. He also has a tendency to...that's not what I want to say," he cut himself off. He sighed. "Just don't let him hurt your feelings, and don't necessarily believe everything he says," he finished wearily.

Blaine handed him a towel, frowning. "I thought you two were friends," he pointed out, eyebrows furrowed.

Kurt's eyes widened. "Oh no, we are," he affirmed. "It's just…"

"Just?" Blaine prompted, after a moment.

Kurt sighed again. "Some friendships are more complicated than others," he said wryly.

Blaine nodded slowly. "I think I can understand that," he replied carefully, not looking away.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6/? Just…long.

And we're back to Blaine's point of view! I don't think I have any trigger warnings this time around, but I do have a **General Warning** for the second half of the chapter: Here There Be **U**nderage **D**rinking. Like, lots of it. If that's not to your taste and you'd like to skip it, feel free to message me for a chapter summary.

Buckle up kids, this is the chapter I've been waiting weeks to write :)

Don't own. So sad. Also, thank the Powers that Be for AutoSave, seriously.

* * *

><p>Saturday, October 31st.<p>

Halloween.

Also, Sectionals.

Vocal Adrenaline's timetable for the day was very exact: they were under strict orders to be at the school's parking lot by 10:15am; the bus left for Bellefontaine at 10:30. Vocal warm-ups would take place immediately following their check-in at 11:30, dance warm-ups would follow at 12:00. The competition began at 12:30, with Vocal Adrenaline opening the performances. They were expected to stay on the premises, either watching the other three groups or having lunch, until the Awards Ceremony at 4:00; the bus would return them to the Carmel parking lot at 5:30, with plenty of time for everyone to get ready for the Halloween party at Jesse's house, which began at 8:00.

"Halloween-slash-Victory party," Jesse had told Blaine, when he officially invited him on Wednesday evening. "The man at the copy center suggested that printing the congratulatory banners in advance was a tad arrogant, but I prefer to think of it as confidence. It's an important character trait."

It was going to be a long day, and Shelby had ordered them all to get a good night's sleep.

For reasons he could not explain, Blaine was awake at 4:00.

After lying unmoving in the dark for half an hour, he finally gave up and rolled out of bed. Throwing on a sweater, he slipped his keys and wallet into his pocket before creeping silently down the stairs.

He didn't bother locking the door behind him.

* * *

><p>The 24-hour diner down the road was empty, but for a tired-looking waitress reading a magazine. She seemed relieved when Blaine didn't sit down, fulfilling his polite request for a large coffee to go with nothing more than a comment about Starbucks needing to open earlier, and calling him Honey when he waved off the change from his five dollar bill.<p>

He was still outside, wrapped up in his sweater and Adirondack chair, when the first glints of sunrise began reflecting off the windshield of the car he'd abandoned in the driveway. The dregs of his coffee had long since gone cold, but he didn't have the energy to go inside and make a fresh pot.

Jesse made incredible coffee, Blaine remembered. He hadn't actually wanted any when Jesse offered it to him on Wednesday, but drank it anyway, not wanting to be rude. He was glad he had—Jesse said his parents had sent it from their brief stopover in Venezuela, and it was probably the best drink he'd ever tried.

He'd never seen Kurt drink coffee, but Blaine was sure he must. Kurt was kinetic energy, always doing something with his hands. If Blaine's visit was any indication, he was also an almost preternaturally thoughtful host—he'd probably have perfectly sweetened coffee brewed and waiting for houseguests before they even realized they wanted any.

He wondered if Kurt ever had houseguests, or even a guest room; wondered what Kurt's room looked like. It would be immaculate, for sure, with plenty of books and pictures filling the shelves. He would have chosen the paint color himself, or maybe his mother had chosen it, and he couldn't bring himself to change it. Unlike Blaine, he probably made his bed every morning, and washed the sheets with fabric softener.

Sometimes he caught a whiff of it, under the crisp, clean scent of Kurt's cologne. He wondered if Kurt had any idea how good he smelled. If he noticed that Blaine always held his breath when he leaned in too close, afraid that Kurt would catch him inhaling too deeply. Probably not.

He wondered what time it was; if Kurt was awake yet. Blaine was certain that Kurt smiled in his sleep.

"Blaine?"

Thoughts of Kurt's lips vanished, and Blaine turned in his chair to see his father standing in the doorway, still in his dark green bathrobe. He was squinting at Blaine, confusion evident.

"Blaine, what are you doing out here?" he asked, voice hoarse from sleep. "It's seven thirty in the morning."

Blaine looked down at his hands and shrugged.

That seemed to be explanation enough for Mr. Anderson. Sighing sharply, he closed the door behind him and walked over to sit in the chair next to Blaine's, leaning back into the sunken seat. He crossed his legs idly; one socked foot remaining firmly on the porch, the other dangling a foot or so above the ground. Blaine recognized the pajama pants that were being lightly tousled by the wind—they were the blue striped ones he'd picked out for Father's Day.

Mr. Anderson looked out at the street in front of them. "Are you worried about this afternoon?" he prompted. "I could never sleep the night before a game, either."

His dad had played football and tennis in high school, and had surprisingly been fairly good at both. Blaine had seen pictures at his grandparents' house and in photo albums, and while the uniforms had been tacky in a way that only the late '70's could achieve, his dad really had been good looking—quietly handsome, with thick locks of sandy blond hair that had been completely overridden in Blaine by his mother's dark curls. "My eyes, though," he used to say, whenever other people would comment on how Blaine's looks favored his mother. "Making eye contact with him is like looking in a mirror."

He hadn't said that in a long time.

His father looked at him, and Blaine realized that he hadn't responded. "I'm not really nervous," he answered at last, "our director is pretty confident, and none of the people who competed last year are worried."

Mr. Anderson nodded. After a minute, he reached into the pocket of his robe, pulling out two miniature Twix bars. "Don't tell your mom," he warned, handing Blaine one and unwrapping the other. "She always buys way more candy than we actually use, but she'll still yell at me if I have any before the Trick or Treaters do."

Blaine nodded his agreement and took a small bite, letting the cookie part dissolve on his tongue.

His dad stuffed the wrapper back in his pocket. "So, do you have any Halloween plans?" he wanted to know. "With, ah, with your teammates?"

Blaine knew the slight hesitation in his voice was his dad stepping around the fact that he wasn't sure if Blaine had made any friends yet.

He didn't blame him. Kurt and Jesse had introduced him around, and the other tenors in particular had been nice to him so far, but Blaine had yet to initiate anything with anyone from Carmel. With the exception of Kurt fixing his car—and even that had been mostly Kurt's doing.

He did have teammates, though, and Halloween plans. "The group's lead singer is hosting a party tonight," he explained, taking another miniscule bite of candy. "He was really nice about making sure I knew I was invited."

Mr. Anderson nodded thoughtfully. "Are his parents going to be there?" he quizzed, glancing briefly at Blaine before looking back out at the street.

Blaine shrugged. "Sure," he lied.

There was an awkward pause.

His dad _had _to know he wasn't telling the truth, especially if the quick, sharp stare that came Blaine's way was in any way indicative of his inward reaction. Blaine looked back curiously.

This was new territory for both of them: he hardly ever lied to his parents, and on the few occasions he had, he'd been much less obvious about it. He didn't know why he'd done it right then, not really. He _was _sure there was no way he'd be allowed to go to the party if he'd told the truth, but…

A nasty voice in his head finished that thought: _but part of him just wanted to see what would happen, see how far he would have to push until his dad finally pushed back, treating him the way he would have before he knew Blaine was gay, instead of drawing back into his shell of hollow, post-revelatory parenting. _

Mr. Anderson didn't challenge Blaine's obvious falsehood. Instead, he continued to look out at the street, his expression taking on a helpless quality that Blaine was getting used to seeing there.

He hated it.

"Will there be drinking there?" his dad asked carefully, running his hand through his greying hair in a gesture that Blaine had inherited.

Blaine lied again, taking more care to sound convincing this time.

"Right," Mr. Anderson sighed. "Well, if it turns out there is, just make sure you call me for a ride home. I'd rather come pick you up than have you driving, or getting into someone else's car if they've been drinking. And if…"

He trailed off, clearing his throat. "If anything happens, and you want to come home. Just…call. And I'll pick you up."

Blaine looked at him, unsure how to respond.

After a minute, Mr. Anderson stood up. "I need some coffee," he told Blaine, adjusting the belt on his bathrobe. "Should I make enough for you too?"

Blaine nodded.

Mr. Anderson opened the door, but didn't go inside. "I'm glad you're—"

He stopped. "I'm glad you like your new school," he settled on.

He closed the door softly behind him, leaving Blaine to wonder what it was his father had chosen not to say: _I'm glad you're not nervous about today? I'm glad you're making friends? I'm glad you're settling in?_

_I'm glad you're happy._

* * *

><p>Blaine couldn't stop looking at his reflection in the faded, dingy mirror that was screwed to the wall over the sink.<p>

He was backstage at some high school in Bellefontaine—he couldn't remember the name, oddly enough—waiting for the Master of Ceremonies to announce the start of the competition. Ben had assigned him a mark in the wings to sing the first number from, with instructions to back away quickly after the final note to avoid being trampled as the rest of the singers darted offstage. He knew all the lyrics, he knew all the notes, he remembered his steps. In a strange, detached way, he was both a little nervous and a little excited. In less than two minutes, the curtain would rise.

Blaine leaned in closer.

He knew on an intellectual level that his bruises had faded dramatically since that night in the hospital. Still, when Kurt had promised to cover them up for the performance, Blaine had only expected him to paint over them well enough to fool the audience—he was certain that they were still too dark to obscure completely. He had expected it to be obvious where the makeup started and ended; figured he'd still see traces of purple skin beneath the thin veneer of greasepaint.

The skin of his reflected image looked flawless.

He resisted the temptation to stroke the areas that had sustained the worst damage, afraid to disturb Kurt's work and ruin the effect. Instead, he savored the image of his unmarked skin, grateful for the opportunity.

It wouldn't last.

As the booming voice of the announcer officially opened the competition, Blaine regretfully tore himself away from the mirror, finding his mark and clearing his throat.

It was Showtime.

* * *

><p>The competition flew by. Even as it was happening, Blaine processed only snippets of the experience: the way he closed his eyes, just at first, until his nerves and voice were both steady and clear. The nod of approval he'd received from a delicately featured Asian boy in a Dalton Academy blazer, watching him sing with a slight smile on his face. The rush of exhilaration, tinged with relief, that shot through him as the final number drew to a close. The way he'd made a small joke at his table while the group ate lunch, and how nobody acted like him participating in the conversation was unusual.<p>

The shouts of happiness and sound of applause when Vocal Adrenaline was pronounced the winner of the competition.

Kurt had been standing closest to him, and had thrown his arms around Blaine in the most enthusiastic hug he'd received in months. Before he had a chance to be shocked or hug back, Kurt had let go, and several of his other teammates had crowded in, hugging him or patting him on the back or, in a few of the girls' cases, kissing him on the cheek. Jesse clapped him on the shoulder and winked, jerking his head at Kurt and indicating that Blaine should watch. Blaine did, and was rewarded with the sight of Jesse tackling Kurt from behind, putting him in a playful headlock and ruffling his hair. Kurt squawked indignantly, punching Jesse in the stomach at an awkward angle until Jesse finally relented, laughing.

Blaine wasn't sure the last time he'd smiled so much.

Someone tapped his shoulder gently. Blaine turned; beside him was the boy who had been watching him backstage. "Congratulations," he offered, smiling kindly at Blaine. "You were excellent."

Blaine was sure he was blushing slightly under all the makeup. "Thank you, so were you guys," he responded politely. "I would never have thought an all-male choir could pull off 'Battlefield', but I really enjoyed it."

The boy's smile grew. "I'm glad you approve," he acknowledged. "But I actually wasn't talking about your group; I meant you, specifically, were excellent. Blaine, right?"

Blaine must have looked as shocked as he felt, because the boy laughed softly. "My apologies, I didn't mean to startle you. My name is Wes; you sat in on my Political Science class a few weeks ago. I remembered your hair."

Blaine let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding upon hearing the explanation. He didn't recognize Wes, but that was hardly a surprise—he hadn't made eye contact with a single other student in the three hours he'd spent in Westerville.

Wes was talking again. "I'm sorry to lose your talent to Carmel," he said, in such a regretful tone that Blaine had to smile.

"I'm on Dalton's waiting list," he assured Wes, who brightened considerably at the prospect.

"Well, should you end up enrolling, the Warblers would be delighted to have you," he promised. A group of boys in blazers that matched Wes's waved in their direction, and Wes nodded back to them. "It appears that we're heading back to school. Take care, Blaine; it was a pleasure to meet you."

He held out his hand. Blaine shook it and watched them go.

* * *

><p>Blaine got ready for the party at his own house that evening, turning on the light and looking in the bathroom mirror for the first time in nearly a month.<p>

Sticking to Kurt's detailed instructional schematic, he left his makeup from Sectionals on, adding eyeliner, bronzer, and auburn lip color. He buckled and tied and tucked everything into place—no small feat, given the sheer amount of accessories Kurt had insisted were necessary—topping off the entire look with the signature hat.

He had no idea where Kurt had gotten such an authentic costume, or why he even owned it in the first place. Kurt had waved off his questions, merely telling him to try and avoid spilling anything on it. "It's not the end of the world if you do, though," he'd assured Blaine. "I did some free emergency body work on my dry-cleaner's car after his psycho ex-wife finished with it, so he always comes through in pinch when I need him."

Blaine hadn't tried to ask any more questions after that.

Slipping out of the house before his parents could question his use of cosmetics—or worse, try and take his picture—he typed Jesse's address into the GPS and drove the semi-familiar route, stopping only to pick up a few boxes of bakery cookies.

At 8:05, Captain Jack Sparrow walked up the driveway of the St. James's house and rang the doorbell.

Jesse answered the door, dressed in a tuxedo and half mask. His eyes widened for a moment, before he removed his mask and broke into an amused smile. "Blaine, is that you under there?" Blaine nodded, smiling back, and Jesse shook his head. "Brilliant, fantastic," he laughed, stepping back and allowing Blaine to enter.

"Normally I'd have you remove your shoes at the door, but I'm not entirely certain you'd be able to get out of those boots without help," Jesse noted, closing the door behind Blaine and leading him into the party. "Fortunately, I'm having the carpets steam-cleaned tomorrow afternoon. Can I get you a drink?"

Blaine agreed absently, busy looking around the room. He had no idea how Jesse had gotten everything ready on time in addition to preparing for the competition that afternoon, but he had done a brilliant job: the overhead lighting was very dim, with strobe lights flashing from somewhere, and music was blasting from the expensive stereo system in the corner. Most of Vocal Adrenaline had arrived already—their cars were lining the street, and he had been forced to park several houses away—but Blaine was still unprepared for how _full _the room was: everywhere he looked, people were talking or laughing or drinking or dancing.

Blaine thoroughly approved—it was like someone had combined the party from _Breakfast at Tiffany's _with the Halloween scenes from _Mean Girls._

Jesse came back from the heavily-laden drink table with a pair of red plastic cups. "Yours is rum-based," he explained, handing a cup to Blaine. "I assumed you'd be keeping in character this evening." He clinked his own cup against Blaine's, before raising it in a silent toast and taking a long swallow.

Blaine sniffed his drink and tried a sip. It smelled vaguely like gasoline, but tasted…surprisingly good. There was a burn that was clearly the rum, but he could also taste soda, and a syrupy-sweet flavor that was probably fruit juice or syrup. Heartened, he took a bigger sip.

Jesse was watching him with a smile. "I'm sure I don't have anything to worry about with you, but I say it to all first timers, just in case," he warned lightly. "Don't do anything that might show up on a drug test on Monday, and no smoking anything around all of these very valuable lungs."

Blaine shook his head so hard that he nearly lost his hat. "Absolutely, I won't," he promised.

Jesse clapped him on the shoulder. "I knew you wouldn't, you're good," he replied. "Any of the seniors will make you another drink if you don't feel comfortable mixing your own, so don't feel shy about asking."

At Blaine's nod of agreement, Jesse took another sip of his drink and began backing into the crowd. "Have fun then, Blaine," he ordered. "Come find me when you're drunk and making poor decisions."

Before Blaine could even blink, Jesse disappeared into the throng of bodies.

* * *

><p>Blaine usually swapped out his champagne for something less dry at weddings, and the few parties or family occasions at which somebody had handed him a beer hadn't done much to sell him on the idea of drinking. He wasn't against it as a concept, it just…wasn't his thing.<p>

He was clearly wrong. Alcohol was _awesome._

He wasn't sure how long he'd been at the party, but he was having a _great _time—everyone was so friendly now that Blaine had gotten up the liquid courage to talk to them, and people were dancing and singing and telling him stories about other parties and past competitions, and straight-laced, dance-gestapo Ben was showing off, doing _backflips _in the middle of the dance floor, wearing nothing but a pair of leather pants. Girls kept smiling at him and complimenting his costume—one of them had given him a bottle of rum to carry around—and their smiles only grew when he explained that Kurt had lent it to him.

That was the only problem with the party—Kurt wasn't there, and Blaine didn't know why. Jesse would probably know, but Blaine wasn't sure if he wanted to ask him, since he was _definitely_ drunk and wasn't sure if Jesse had been hitting on him or just joking before about making bad decisions, and he could hear words coming out of his mouth and _completely_ bypassing his brain, and if he talked to Jesse before getting some control over his speech, he would probably say something really stupid without meaning to.

He looked around hazily to see where Jesse was, anyway, and found him in the far corner of the room with Andrea; leaning into her where she was lazing against the wall and whispering something that was making her smile into her ear. Which answered one question, at least, but now Blaine didn't want to go over and ask him about Kurt for a different reason.

Maybe he could call Kurt and just ask _him_ when he was coming. His phone was…somewhere, anyway. His coat had about 14 pockets; he couldn't remember which one had his keys, and which one had his phone, and which one had his wallet, and which ones were just pockets. Well, he was pretty sure he'd left his wallet in the car, but he wouldn't have left the phone out there. But if he'd brought it in with him _why wasn't he finding it_, and now his stupid hand was caught in one of the ropes around his waist, and—

A pair of hands grabbed his arm and eased it out of the sash. Blaine looked up, jaw dropping as he took in the blue, lightly-pinstriped suit, the gorgeous brown overcoat, and the dark framed glasses, all topped off with a familiar head of meticulously styled hair.

"Careful," Kurt warned, "better men than you have been felled by the deadly combination of liquor and accessories."

"Marry me," Blaine replied earnestly.

Kurt burst out laughing.

Blaine grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. I just—you're David Tennant. I don't think you understand what that's doing to my head right now."

Kurt nodded at the mostly-empty bottle in Blaine's hand. "I think something else is doing a number on your head right now," he commented lightly. "Good to see you're getting into character, though."

"That's what everyone's been saying," Blaine agreed. He held up the bottle. "Want some?"

Kurt picked up a red cup and held it out for Blaine to see. "My sonic screwdriver was confiscated by The Coven and replaced with an actual Screwdriver," he explained, pointing at the scantily-clad trio of witches who were seated on the couch, playing with the glowing blue accessory. "Besides, I want to dance. Come with me?"

Blaine nodded eagerly, ditching the rum and holding out his hand for Kurt to take. Kurt smiled and held up a finger, and Blaine waited as he drained the entire cup in four quick swallows.

He smiled wickedly. "Lead the way, Mr. Anderson."

* * *

><p>Blaine was probably a maudlin drunk. Still, he couldn't help but think that dancing with Kurt was what his body was made for.<p>

At least half of the partygoers were out on the dance floor, twisting and grinding and making personal space kind of an issue. Normally Blaine would be freaking out a little bit over that, but he couldn't bring himself to care just now. Not when getting bumped into meant that Kurt had to grab his waist to steady him; when the bodies pressing in around them forced them closer and closer together, until Blaine could feel Kurt's breath on his cheek. Everything was wild and wonderful and laughing and Kurt's hand in his, spinning him around and around and—

"Blaine, are you okay?" Kurt shouted over the music.

Blaine grabbed Kurt's shoulder to steady himself. Kurt had stopped spinning Blaine, but nobody had told the room that. His stomach lurched unpleasantly, and he knew he was probably flushed and sweating underneath his makeup.

"I feel a little sick, actually," he replied, wincing a little at how pathetic his voice sounded.

Kurt bit his lip, looking concerned. "Go outside and get some fresh air," he suggested. "I'll get you some water."

In the shadowy room, Kurt's bottom lip was dark where his teeth had bitten it. Blaine tore his eyes away from it and hurried outside before Kurt could notice him staring.

Jesse's wraparound porch was comfortably lit, and the night air was cool and sobering. Blaine inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of burning leaves and wood smoke coming from somewhere nearby. Fall was his favorite season by far; he'd be disappointed when winter came, with its too-harsh winds and ever-present darkness.

Maybe it wasn't the alcohol. Maybe he was just a maudlin person.

The door opened, and Kurt came out with a bottle of water for Blaine and a refill on his own drink. He smiled dazzlingly and shut the door behind him, muting the music and laughter still coming from within. "Do you think you're going to get sick?" he asked sympathetically, twisting the cap off of Blaine's water and handing it to him.

Blaine shook his head and took a small sip. "I don't think so," he decided, "I think I just got overheated. Thank you," he added, gesturing with the water bottle.

Kurt frowned. "Take the coat off for a few minutes, it'll help with that," he suggested. When Blaine didn't protest, he stepped close to Blaine and undid the buckles for him. Blaine helped him slide the coat off of his shoulders, and watched with soft eyes as Kurt smoothed the fabric and draped it gently over the porch railing.

Kurt slid out of his own overcoat, slipping the glasses into the inside pocket before draping it next to Blaine's. "I'm sorry you aren't feeling well," he offered, looking shyly over at Blaine. "I was hoping you'd have a good time."

Blaine scoffed. "Kurt, I am having the _best _time," he pointed out.

He paused. "Thank you for making me come," he added sheepishly, making Kurt laugh.

"My pleasure," Kurt promised. "I wanted to get here sooner, but I wasn't counting on getting grease in my _hair_ at the shop. Decontaminating my scalp set me back at least an hour."

He shook his head self-deprecatingly. "I swear, I don't know anyone else that sort of thing happens to."

They were silent for a minute. Kurt sat perched on the railing, sipping his drink, while Blaine continued to breathe in the night air.

"So," Kurt asked suddenly, "I never asked: what did you think of your first competition?"

Blaine took another drink of water, thinking. "I—it was a lot," he admitted. "My memory of it is a little fuzzy, and I don't know if that's because it seemed to fly by, or because I've been drinking."

Kurt laughed, and Blaine rolled his eyes, smiling back. "Sorry, go on," Kurt apologized, gesturing deferentially to Blaine.

Blaine took off his hat and placed it on top of his coat. "It was different than I was expecting," he explained, looking out at the street, where the last remaining Trick or Treaters were still visible. "Not in a bad way. Just…I don't know. I overthink everything, I know that. If I could just let myself _feel _things, get out of my own way, I'd be fine, but…"

He paused. "I guess I wasn't really able to do that in rehearsals, and I always felt like I was a step behind. But today during the performance, something just clicked. I was finally able to stop thinking and just let go, and it all fell into place."

He swallowed. "I don't know if I can explain it any better than that. The way it felt, like I…"

Blaine trailed off. Kurt smiled gently. "Like you belonged?" he suggested quietly.

Blaine nodded.

The music floating through the windows of the house shifted, and Blaine heard the soft opening chords of the next song begin. He laughed softly. "Would you think I'm a huge dork if I told you that this is one of my favorite songs?" he asked, glancing shyly at Kurt before turning quickly to look at the dancers through the glass.

Kurt's reflection smiled slowly. "If I did, it would be pretty hypocritical," he confessed. "I always sing to my Mom when I visit, and I sang this one last year on her birthday."

Blaine looked back. "Will you sing it for me? I sang for you, ages ago," he reminded him, when Kurt hesitated.

Kurt studied him for a moment, before standing up. "How are you feeling now?" he wanted to know.

"Fine," Blaine answered, "why?"

Kurt slid off the porch railing, setting his empty cup aside. "Because. I'll sing for you, if you'll dance with me. Just us, out here."

Blaine's heart fluttered.

"Yeah, okay," he agreed, slightly breathless. "Yes."

Smiling brilliantly, Kurt held out a hand. Blaine took it, and Kurt pulled him in, wrapping his arms softly around Blaine's waist. Blaine circled his own arms around Kurt's neck, letting his hands rest lightly on Kurt's back. Oddly embarrassed at their sudden proximity, Blaine laughed quietly, glancing up at Kurt through his eyelashes.

Kurt was blushing.

Catching his gaze, Kurt smiled sheepishly and led Blaine in a slow dance, floorboards creaking quietly under their feet. His hands were warm on Blaine's back; heat emanated from his skin where Blaine's arms were resting. The night breeze was cool, and Blaine found himself edging closer to Kurt and his warmth as Kurt picked up the lyrics at the chorus, as promised:

"_And know that if I knew all of the answers I would not hold them from you, _

_know all of the things that I know, 'cause we told each other, there is no other way…"_

Blaine had never heard Kurt sing completely on his own before. His voice was higher than Blaine had expected, but it was clear, and pure, and even more beautiful than he thought it would be. As Kurt drifted through the bittersweet second verse, Blaine moved in even closer.

Resting his head on Kurt's shoulder, he relaxed his grip on Kurt's back and closed his eyes, letting the song and the air and the night wash over him. Kurt's voice grew even softer, and Blaine felt his hands moving across his back and his cheek brushing the top of Blaine's head, cradling him even as he continued to sing.

He had never felt so at peace.

The song was nearly over, and Blaine couldn't stand the thought that the moment was about to end. Straightening back up, he watched Kurt sing the final lyrics.

His eyes were closed; face more beautiful than it had any right to be, beautiful enough to make Blaine's heart ache. Reaching up, he stroked Kurt's soft skin with delicate, trembling fingers.

Kurt's eyes fluttered open, looking at Blaine questioningly.

Taking a deep breath, Blaine stopped thinking and let go.

Closing the gap between them, he reached up, pulling Kurt in and kissing him softly.

For one terrible, awful fraction of a second, Blaine felt Kurt stiffen under his grip. Then suddenly Kurt was kissing him back, threading a hand into Blaine's hair and easing his lips slightly open, smiling into Blaine's mouth. Blaine's grip on Kurt's collar tightened as he responded, leaning in and drawing Kurt even closer.

The final notes drifted out the window, and the song ended. Blaine didn't notice.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7/? I'll let you know when I know.

So, The Purple Piano Project: 85% awesome, 15% uncomfortably awkward? Anyone else want to toss their percentages into the ring? All I know is that I wrote half of this chapter before watching on Tuesday and half after, and it took a lot of extra work to control for the tone shift in my brain ;)

I don't own anything, not even Halloween candy. Yet.

* * *

><p>Kurt woke up on Sunday morning with a foggy head and a cotton-dry mouth, not entirely certain why he was awake.<p>

That mystery was quickly solved—the alarm clock on his nightstand was going off, as it did every weekend morning at 8:00, with Neil Patrick Harris ironically singing about it being a Brand New Day. Shutting it off with a little more force than absolutely necessary, Kurt rolled back over and face-planted into his pillow.

Mornings were the scourge of humanity.

A few minutes of non-movement later, Kurt forced himself out of bed. Padding barefoot across the carpet, he noted with some satisfaction that his Halloween costume was hanging neatly from the closet door, barely wrinkled. Probably looking better than he himself did, unfortunately—he'd neglected to shower, or make even a perfunctory attempt at any sort of hygienic activity beyond brushing his teeth, when he'd finally gotten in the night before.

Consequently, he wasn't entirely certain that he wanted to look into the mirror and assess the damage.

Manning up, Kurt flipped on the light switch in the bathroom and bravely faced his reflection. It was better than he had expected: his hair had held up surprisingly well, and there were no bags under his eyes to betray how late he'd gone to bed the night before (or how early he'd gotten up that morning). His skin was even clear, but for a reddish-brown mark near the corner of his mouth. He swiped at it gingerly, frowning curiously at his finger when it rubbed off. _What could have possibly—_

Kurt froze.

He had lent Blaine his auburn lip color to wear to the party.

In a giant rush of awareness, the entire night came flooding back, snippets of events and flashes of memory weaving together to form a cohesive picture.

Holy. Shit.

He and Blaine had kissed. He and Blaine had _kissed. _Blaine had _kissed_ him. And not just a tiny peck on the lips, either—there had been open mouths and just-this-side-of-unchaste hands and a decided lack of inhibition displayed by both parties. It was the kind of kissing that most assuredly did _not _fall into the realm of Platonic Displays of Affection. It was the kind of kissing that called for Celebratory Dancing.

And, standing in front of his bathroom mirror at ten after eight on a Sunday morning, that's exactly what Kurt Hummel did.

For a minute, anyway, until an unpleasant thought crept in and brought the Happy Dance screeching to a halt (and the toothpaste tube clattering into the sink)—Blaine had kissed him after drinking what he could only assume was a spectacular amount of rum at the party. What if he didn't remember it? Or worse, what if he _did_ remember it, and regretted it happening? Or, worst of all, blamed Kurt for letting it happen, decided he wasn't comfortable being around Kurt anymore, and transferred to a new school in Sri Lanka just to get away from him?

All right, so perhaps that assessment of the situation was a little dramatic. Sri Lanka didn't support LGBT rights; there was no way Blaine would transfer there.

Kurt stared at his toothbrush for another minute, brooding, before picking it up and putting it to use. He'd be seeing Blaine later, taking him back to Jesse's house to pick up his car, and it was no use psyching himself out before they even got a chance to talk about what had happened.

And really, the more he thought about it logically, rather than mentally flailing like an exceptionally deranged nitwit, the less horrifyingly world-ending the situation seemed: maybe Blaine would be feeling conflicted about their actions, but he had been having fun dancing with Kurt beforehand, Kurt could _tell_, and _he _had been the one to initiate the kiss, not Kurt. And Kurt _knew_ there was some part of Blaine that felt the same way about him that he did about Blaine.

Even if it _had_ taken a boatload of alcohol to get him to act on it.

Kurt knew what he wanted—Blaine. All of him. He wanted to pass him notes in class and rub his back after rehearsals, sit with him on the bus to competitions and talk on the phone with him until they fell asleep. He wanted to hold his hand at school, counting the hours until they were locked behind somebody's bedroom door where he could kiss him, hard, stroking his bare skin until he absolutely fell apart.

And maybe it was just a crush, but what little he knew of Blaine—what he thought, how he felt, how his mind worked—he _really _liked. He wanted the boy Blaine was now, and the person he'd be after he began really healing all the damage that had been done to him.

He could only hope that when he and Blaine got the chance to talk, Blaine would want the same thing.

Kurt sighed, stripping off his pajamas and turning on the shower. Some things were just too confusing to deal with before 8:30 in the morning.

* * *

><p>Kurt was making eggs—hardboiled for himself, sunny side up for his dad—when Burt lumbered into the kitchen, dressed for work and with the Sunday paper in his hand. Ruffling Kurt's hair as he passed, he poured them each a cup of coffee and began separating the paper. "How was the party?" he asked, tossing the World News and Lifestyle sections next to Kurt's mug, keeping the others for himself.<p>

Kurt transferred Burt's eggs to a plate and turned the burner off underneath his own. "It was fun," he replied lightly, deciding not to tell his dad about Blaine until—unless—there was something to tell. "My costume went over the heads of the Great Unwashed, but there's no accounting for taste," he griped affably. "And the ones who did appreciate it were effusive in their praise."

Burt nodded as Kurt sat down across from him. "What time did you get in last night?" he wanted to know, dumping hot sauce on his eggs. The fingers of his free hand twitched—a sure sign he was reflexively looking for the salt again, Kurt knew.

"Around 1:00," he answered, sipping his coffee. "I know I said I'd shoot for 12:30, but I had to drive a friend home." Again, he left Blaine out-whether Blaine ended up being a friend or a boyfriend, or whether he didn't want to see Kurt at all anymore, Kurt still wanted Burt to think well of him.

His dad narrowed his eyes across the table. "Kurt," he warned, voice deadly serious, "tell me right now that you didn't get behind the wheel in any state but stone-cold sober."

Kurt's face was equally solemn. "I would never," he promised. "I would _never, _you know that. I had _a_ drink when I first got there, but that was hours before I left, and I didn't have anything but soda or orange juice for the rest of the night. And I poured those myself." He toyed with his fork. "That's why I was late," he explained, looking down. "I was afraid one of my friends was still a little too sloppy to drive, so I gave him a ride."

Burt nodded again, somewhat mollified. "Good," he said gruffly. "You know I don't like it when you kids are drinking, but I was sixteen once. I'd rather you do it and be smart about it, and keeping telling me when these things happen, then have you sneaking around behind my back."

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking somehow…smaller, than usual. "You did the right thing last night, and I'm proud of you, Kurt," he said reassuringly. "Just remember, though, the second that you abuse my trust, especially about this…"

He trailed off, looking anywhere but at Kurt.

Kurt, who was looking down at his lap, throat closing over. "I know, Dad," he said quietly, voice pained. "I miss her, too."

The room was silent for a moment.

Finally, Burt cleared his throat. "Are you coming in at 1:00 or 2:00 today?" he asked, checking his watch. "Jason's been saving you all the undercarriage jobs, so we'll take you for as long as we can get you."

Kurt groaned. "He told me yesterday," he answered ruefully. "You need more young, flexible employees without back issues." Burt snorted. Kurt rolled his eyes in return. "Definitely by 1:30," he decided, "my friend needs to get his car back from Jesse's, and I should offer to help clean up while I'm there."

Burt was finishing the last of his eggs. "Hmm. Haven't seen him around here in a while," he commented, "everything okay there?"

Kurt shrugged, staring at his plate. "Jesse's a senior," he explained. "He's got a lot going on right now, with auditions and college applications, and such."

If Burt noticed anything unusual in Kurt's tone—Kurt assumed he didn't, but his dad occasionally surprised him—he didn't mention it. Instead, he shook his head. "I'm sure he's a good kid," he offered. "But he's a little…I don't know. Too focused, I guess. Seems like the type who isn't gonna get his priorities straight until he crashes and burns."

Draining the last of his coffee, he stood up, gathering his plate and utensils. "Glad that's not you," he said frankly, clapping Kurt on the shoulder on his way to the sink.

Kurt nodded silently in response.

* * *

><p>Kurt's nerves began unraveling again on the drive over to Blaine's house, and they were back in full force as he stood on the Andersons' doorstep an hour later. He took a steadying breath and pressed the buzzer, then listened to the chimes of the doorbell echoing through the house. A pair of heels clicked through the foyer, and Kurt turned his smile on full wattage as Blaine's mom opened the door.<p>

"Good morning, Mrs. Anderson," he greeted warmly. "Happy Halloween. Is Blaine in?"

Mrs. Anderson smiled broadly. "Good morning, Kurt," she chirped, and stood back to let him in. "He is, he's just finishing his coffee. Can I interest you in a cup?" she offered, leading him to the kitchen.

Kurt shook his head quickly. "That's very kind of you, but I just had my second one in the car," he demurred. "Perhaps another time, when I'm not going to be working around heavy machinery."

Mrs. Anderson nodded with an absurd degree of enthusiasm. "Of course," she agreed, "next time. And thank you so much for giving Blaine a ride home last night, Kurt," she continued, as she and Kurt entered the kitchen where Blaine was sitting at the counter, looking thoroughly wrecked. "I know we should have put a spare tire and some tools in the car when we bought it, but I guess you don't think of these things until you have a flat, do you?"

Kurt took a quick look at Blaine before answering. His shut down, hungover expression wasn't promising, but a quick shake of his head confirmed what Kurt had already assumed.

"Most people don't," he agreed, looking back over at Mrs. Anderson, who was hovering somewhat nervously near Blaine. "But that sort of thing helps pay our cable bill, so you won't hear any complaints from me. Potholes, as well," he added, when Mrs. Anderson laughed. "They're terrible on the suspension, but they keep me busy."

"Well, we appreciate you looking after Blaine," Mrs. Anderson replied cheerfully, patting Blaine on the shoulder, but continuing to look at Kurt. "It's not easy changing schools in the middle of the semester."

Blaine stood up fast, rattling the stool he'd been seated on. "We have to go, Mom," he said abruptly. "Kurt works on the weekends, and I don't want to make him late."

Kurt but the inside of his cheek, frowning. That…didn't bode well.

Mrs. Anderson looked a bit startled by Blaine's sudden entrance into the conversation. "Oh," she responded slowly, "oh, um, all right. Call me or your father when you're on your way home then. Okay?" She blinked a few times before smiling forcibly. "Nice to see you again, Kurt," she added, as Blaine brushed past them both and left the kitchen. "Take some Halloween candy on your way out, won't you? We always have extra, and I don't want Blaine's dad eating it all."

* * *

><p>Blaine was waiting for him on the front porch, his arms folded over his stomach. He hadn't bothered to put on real shoes, opting instead for a worn pair of sandals, but had thrown on a tan corduroy jacket that Kurt thoroughly approved of.<p>

"I'm sorry about that," he apologized, biting his lip, as Kurt shut the door behind him. "Mom can be a little intense. She would have given you the third degree if we stayed."

Kurt fished his keys out of his pocket, thinking of Mrs. Anderson's deliberate cheerfulness, and the uncertain look that seemed to shadow her features every time she looked at Blaine. "I wouldn't have minded," he said honestly. "I just wouldn't want to say the wrong thing; I don't know how much you've told her."

_About the party, or about me_, he added silently, watching Blaine's face curiously for his reaction.

Blaine shifted from one sandaled foot to the other. "Yeah. I'm sorry, I meant to text you about the tire thing," he explained, tugging at a button on his jacket. "I wasn't sure what time you'd be up, though, so I was going to wait until 10:00."

Kurt glanced at his watch—9:44am. "Would they be upset if they knew?" he asked, deliberately leaving the question open to interpretation, as they started down the path to the driveway.

Blaine shrugged listlessly. "I don't…I don't know," he admitted. "More like disappointed, probably. I'm pretty sure my dad knew, but if we don't talk about it, it's like it never happened."

He stopped short, seemingly realizing what he had just said. After a moment, he climbed into the passenger seat of Kurt's car, closing the door behind him and fumbling to fasten his seatbelt in silence.

Kurt was quiet as he started the car and backed out of the driveway, letting the radio anchorman give the traffic and weather report (none; sunny with a high of 52 degrees) while he drove out of Blaine's neighborhood. When they reached a main road a few minutes later, he reached over and turned down the volume on the stereo. "Can we talk about last night?" he asked quietly, working to keep his voice from shaking nervously.

He heard Blaine's sharp intake of breath next to him, and he fought a sudden wave of panic that welled up in his stomach. "We don't have to," he continued, keeping his voice calm. "But I really think we should."

Blaine didn't answer right away. Kurt drove through an empty intersection before glancing at him. "Oh, Blaine," he exhaled softly, when he saw that Blaine was shaking visibly and looked close to tears. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"I'm sorry," Blaine burst out, interrupting Kurt—who, in truth, had no idea where his sentence had been headed anyway.

Blaine was struggling for words. "Me kissing you like that was _entirely_ out of line, and I'm—I had had a _lot_ to drink, and I know that that's no excuse, but I promise I've never done anything like that before, and you're just so _nice_ to me, and—"

He stopped, flushed, and took a deep breath. "It'll never happen again, I promise, so you don't have to worry. I'm just…just sorry."

Kurt sat through Blaine's outburst, his emotions changing rapidly as Blaine got increasingly flustered—incredulity, alarm, compassion.

Hope.

He waited until Blaine's verbal torrent had wound itself down. "May I say something?" he asked when Blaine was done, waiting for his shaky nod before taking a calming breath. "This is a somewhat embarrassing admission," he prefaced self-deprecatingly, "but I may have jumped up and down like a twelve year old girl in front of the mirror this morning. All right, that's putting it mildly," he admitted, encouraged by Blaine's quiet, halting laugh. "There was dancing. It was like, Tom Cruise circa Risky Business, only slightly more clothed."

Kurt spared another glance from the road to look at Blaine. Blaine's eyelashes were wet and matted, and his arms were still guarding the rest of him, but there was something…almost _hopeful, _unfurling in his expression.

Kurt gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles began to ache.

"Look," he began, grasping a bit for words, "I know we were both drinking, and sometimes things happen, and they don't necessarily mean anything. But when you kissed me"—Blaine shuddered out of the corner of his eye, and Kurt adjusted his grip on the steering wheel—"when you kissed me, I liked it. I like _you_," he said honestly, "and I didn't just realize that last night. If you don't feel the same, and you'd rather stay friends, then I completely understand—just give me a few days to overdose on sappy movies that I'll deny owning under pain of death, and we can pretend that it never happened. If that's what you want."

He swallowed.

"But if you meant it," Kurt continued, his voice a little raw, "if you still want to kiss me, without any excuses, then…I guess, you should know that this is something I want, too."

Kurt drove past Carmel, noting absently that nearly all the leaves had fallen from the trees that lined the front of the building—it would be winter soon. A sharp breeze stirred up a pile of orange and yellow sugar maple leaves that were heaped near the road, and a few of them danced across the hood of the car as Kurt pulled to a stop at a red traffic light.

Kurt bit his lip, not looking at Blaine. "Please say something before I crash the car," he pleaded dryly.

"Last Monday," Blaine said quietly.

Kurt looked at him, uncertain. Whatever he'd expected Blaine to say, it certainly wasn't that. "Monday?"

"Last Monday, at rehearsal," Blaine elaborated, staring blankly through the windshield. "That truly insane choreographer was there instead of Shelby, and he only gave us five minutes for dinner. We were both sweaty and gross and tired, even though you were the one dancing onstage, and I was just trying to copy even half of what all of you were doing from the wings." He shook his head, smiling lightly. "And when we sat down on the stage to try and eat something, I made some comment about those horrible protein shakes being off-brand vanilla ice cream gone rogue, or something like that. Just something stupid. And you…"

Blaine looked down at his hands, nervously entwined in his lap. "You pulled a bottle of chocolate sauce out of nowhere and just…_smiled_ at me, like you had been waiting all day for me to give you the chance to do that.

"That's when I knew I wanted to kiss you."

He turned to look at Kurt, who was watching him in awe. "That light turned green about five days ago," he pointed out, smiling beautifully.

Kurt leaned across the seat and kissed him.

* * *

><p>Eventually, the minimal Sunday morning traffic forced them to move, and they finished the drive to Jesse's house. Pulling up behind Blaine's car, Kurt pulled the keys out of the ignition and turned to face him. "Do you want to go out on our day off this week?" he asked hopefully. "There's this music shop nearby—they sell sheet music as well as regular music, and there's usually someone playing in the café or on the store pianos."<p>

Blaine twisted his lips ruefully. "I have my _appointment_ at 5:00," he said sadly. Kurt must have looked as disappointed as he felt, because Blaine looked almost concerned as he ducked his head slightly to meet his eyes. "Will we have enough time to go before that?" he asked shyly.

Kurt grinned. "We'll drive separately, so you can go straight from there."

Blaine nodded. "Okay. Yeah, sure," he agreed. "So…I guess I'll see you tomorrow at school?"

Kurt nodded back happily. "It's a date," he confirmed. "Only not, because it's school. But the other one—the music store. Date?"

Blaine laughed at Kurt's verbal stumbling. "Date," he decided. "Thanks for the ride." Blushing slightly, he climbed out of the car and shut the door.

Kurt watched him start his own car and drive off, unashamed of his obvious staring.

Blaine was going out with him later that week. Blaine was going out with him, and he _had _meant that kiss at the party the night before, and he had responded with enthusiasm when Kurt had kissed him that morning—restrained enthusiasm, it was true, but it was still early and Blaine was probably a little hungover—and if Jesse hadn't chosen that particular moment to open the front door and wave to Kurt from his front porch, Kurt would most certainly be doing a second round of Celebratory Dancing.

As it was, he allowed himself one more happy sigh, before setting his expression to neutral and getting out of the car.

"What on earth are you wearing?" he asked Jesse, walking down the driveway and taking in Jesse's all-white, cotton outfit with some concern. "I need sunglasses just to look at you."

Jesse merely raised an eyebrow. "I was doing my Tai Chi," he said placidly. "It's very calming. You should try it."

Kurt rolled his burning, burning eyes. "Not if I have to wear that after Labor Day," he responded tonelessly. "Or, you know, ever. Do you need any help cleaning up the house?"

Jesse waved away the offer. "I hired a team of professionals," he explained, "it's already done. But since you're here," he changed the subject cheerfully, "I couldn't help but notice that you and the New Kid disappeared together last night, and that you were the one to bring him back this morning."

He smiled poisonously. "What did the two of you get up to?"

Kurt didn't take the bait. "We visited his grandmother in the nursing home, and then talked about books and issues," he replied neutrally. "It was swell."

Jesse laughed. "Fine, don't tell me," he pouted long-sufferingly. "I like him even more, if he gives you this kind of backbone in the morning."

He paused. "Or another type of bone, maybe?"

Kurt scoffed. "You wish. Leave him alone, he's too fragile for your brand of blitzkrieg friendship," he scolded.

Jesse smiled. "I think you're wrong," he disagreed. "I think he has a great deal of potential. But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. Yet, anyway."

Kurt didn't press the point. He crossed his arms, looking expectantly at Jesse.

Who, as usual, needed no encouragement to talk. "I have a project in the works," he began mysteriously. "I don't have all the details yet, but it might be long term. Very top secret."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "So you're telling me, because…?" he asked.

Jesse shrugged. "I trust you," he pointed out. "Marginally. Are you working today, or can you spare an hour?"

Kurt glanced at his watch. He had built two hours into his schedule to help Jesse clean—if he stayed for a while, he could still make it to the garage by 1:00. "I've got time," he told Jesse, who smiled brilliantly.

"Excellent," he stated. "Come in."


	8. Chapter 8

This took forever—painful, painful writer's block :/ But we're here, and it's very long, and I don't foresee the next chapter taking nearly so much time to write. **Spoiler Alert for "I Am Unicorn": **Yeah, I don't peg Blaine as a junior for one second, so I'm going to ignore that and continue writing them in the same grade.

**S**light **W**arning! There is nothing explicit in this chapter, but here there be awkward conversations of the Teenage Boy variety. Have I mentioned how glad I am to be out of high school?

I don't own anything. Not even coffee.

* * *

><p>There was something Jesse knew that he didn't.<p>

For once, Kurt didn't mind being the one stuck underneath the cars all day; besides muffling the abysmal country radio station preferred by the mechanics that worked shifts on Sundays, it gave him a chance to go over what little Jesse had confided in him:

"_I'm meeting a girl this week," he had explained, smiling mysteriously. "She's the lead singer of the New Directions."_

_Kurt had raised a very skeptical eyebrow. "That sounds like the name of a seedy, all-male burlesque club," he'd pointed out._

_Jesse had laughed. "It's a rather unfortunate name," he'd agreed, "and I'll be sure to point that out. But it's New, pause, Directions," he clarified. "As in, the Glee club at McKinley High—also known as our competition at Regionals."_

_Kurt nodded in understanding. But… "Sectionals were quite literally less than a day ago," he pointed out. "Isn't it a bit early to start sabotaging the competition?"_

_Jesse had looked at him pityingly. "Oh, Kurt. Must you be so cynical?" he'd asked. "I'm simply making a new friend. No sabotage whatsoever."_

_Kurt wasn't convinced. "Really."_

"_Really," Jesse had replied. "It was Shelby's suggestion."_

That had given Kurt pause. While Shelby was certainly aware that Vocal Adrenaline made a point of harmlessly hazing their competition before major events—she could hardly fail to notice her entire choir coming into rehearsal covered in traces of spray-able chalk, for instance—she had never once said anything about it one way or the other, and had certainly never encouraged it. For her to specifically identify a victim like that would be entirely out of character for her. Kurt couldn't, however, think of any reason why Shelby would suggest that Jesse meet some random girl, and Jesse had pled ignorance on that point.

Which led Kurt to one of three conclusions:

1.) Jesse was lying about the order coming from Shelby,

2.) He was lying about not knowing why Shelby wanted him to befriend her, or

3.) Shelby had deliberately withheld said knowledge from Jesse.

Kurt had worked under Shelby for over a year, and to the best of his recollection, she had never been anything less than forthcoming when it came to giving her students the best possible advantages and preparation. If she had a reason for sending Jesse to McKinley, Jesse would know it.

And really? Holding back a key detail just to see if Kurt could work it out for himself was _exactly _the sort of thing that Jesse would do.

A rapping noise on the hood of the car startled Kurt. "Closing time, Bud," his dad called. "Finish up whatever can't be left until the morning; we've got twenty minutes to get home before the pizza does."

Kurt rolled out from underneath the car and glared. "Dad," he started.

"Don't give me that look," Burt cut him off, "I got you a salad, and I didn't ask for extra cheese."

"Where on earth would they put it?" Kurt retorted, awkwardly climbing to his feet. "Between the pepperoni, sausage, _and _bacon, I'm surprised they don't forgo the sauce to make more room."

Burt snorted. "I'd say don't knock it 'til you've tried it, but that'll happen right around never," he replied, not without amusement. "And don't even try to pretend you'd eat it if I got vegetables on it—that lecture you gave me on whole grains last summer was one of the longest hours of my life."

Kurt rolled his eyes, conceding the point.

Stripping off his coveralls and hanging them up in his dad's office, Kurt pulled on his coat and scarf, cursing himself for not remembering to grab a pair of gloves—the thermostat outside the office window indicated that the temperature outside had dropped down into the upper forties. He locked the office door behind him, pausing to hit the lights on his way out of the garage, where his dad was already waiting. While Burt locked up, Kurt checked his phone: three missed calls from people he would call back after dinner, including Jesse, and one text message:

_Thank you again for today. See you at school! –B_

Kurt turned in place slightly, so that Burt wouldn't see the dopey grin on his face.

The streets were mostly dark as Kurt followed his dad's car down the winding roads home. He drove carefully, as he always did, but he couldn't help but sneak the occasional peek at the screen of his phone, appreciating how much the simple text had done for his mood.

Maybe he wouldn't call Jesse back until the next day, after all.

* * *

><p>Kurt didn't see Jesse around Carmel on Monday morning, but that wasn't unusual—Jesse tended to haunt the senior wing, or lounge around the auditorium, making the freshman theatre class uncomfortable.<p>

What was unusual was Blaine. Or rather, that Blaine was already sitting at his desk in the back of the room when Kurt walked into History, smiling at Kurt like the cat that ate the canary (a disturbing visual that made Kurt shudder inwardly every time he heard it, but nevertheless appropriate).

Kurt sauntered down the aisle toward him. "Someone's on time today," he commented coyly, making Blaine sit up in his seat and beam at him.

"No more extra dance rehearsals," he announced proudly. "Ben says that we're only keeping two of the old numbers and choreographing a whole new program. And since those two are ones that I already know…"

He trailed off as Kurt applauded. "That's great, Blaine, I'm so happy for you," Kurt praised earnestly. "I know how hard you've been working; you really earned it."

Blaine flushed delicately at the compliment, and if it wouldn't have been entirely too weird, Kurt would have taken a picture and saved it forever.

"It's definitely been hard," Blaine admitted, running a hand through his curls. "But I actually kind of like it, getting all that exercise. I feel stronger than I did, and more flexible, and it's nice looking back and seeing that I really am getting better at something, even if it's just a little bit."

Kurt filed the very-probably unintentional bodily assessments in Blaine's sentence away for later use. "I'll bring you celebratory cookies, if you like," he promised, enjoying the way that Blaine's face lit up. "You should know, though, that I don't bake for just anyone," he confided, voice mock-serious. "My cookware reacts badly to saturated fat."

Blaine practically _bounced_ in his seat. "Can you make those gingerbread cookies again?" he asked hopefully.

Kurt rolled his eyes fondly. "Sure," he agreed, earning a brilliant smile just as the bell rang. He turned around in his seat, grinning. If Blaine wanted gingersnaps, he would get gingersnaps—they were actually vegan faux-cookies from a specialty shop near the library, but Blaine didn't know that, and Kurt had no intention of bringing it up.

His smirk slowly faded into a grimace. Blaine had been so adorably proud of himself that Kurt hadn't had the heart to shatter his delight by pointing out that, being a full-fledged member of Vocal Adrenaline? Meant he'd have to actually meet Dakota Stanley in person.

Ten minutes into class, Kurt heard Blaine's pencil clatter to the floor and roll forward. When it came to a stop against Kurt's left Galliano boot, he bent forward to retrieve it.

If there was any doubt in his mind that Blaine had dropped it on purpose, it was erased when Kurt turned around and saw the dreamy smile on Blaine's face as he took back his pencil and softly touched Kurt's wrist in thanks.

Kurt smiled back before turning around again. Yeah, he was definitely going to hold off on ruining Blaine's mood.

* * *

><p>In retrospect, Kurt was glad he'd never quite gotten around to warning Blaine about Dakota Stanley's disparaging attitude toward newcomers—Blaine's reception was by far the most innocuous one that Kurt had ever seen.<p>

And, given that he'd seen the man meet a wheel-chaired trumpet player with both parents and Shelby present, that was saying something.

Jesse had taken Blaine to Dakota's seat in the auditorium—referred to by Vocal Adrenaline as 'Stanley's Throne' whenever he was out of earshot, as it was on an elevated platform—for introductions before rehearsal began, and Kurt had braced himself for the inevitable explosion. To his and everyone else's surprise (a few people were staring openly, but most were at least pretending not to eavesdrop out of fear of accidently making eye contact), it never came. Dakota merely looked Blaine, who was trying valiantly to smile, over with distaste, before asking in a loud, slow voice if he was the newest tenor. When Blaine answered in the affirmative, he grunted neutrally and told him to get onstage with the rest of the peons.

Kurt was stunned. Relieved on Blaine's behalf, obviously, but still—his own first interactions with the venerable Mr. Stanley had resulted in eight crying freshman, a run on diet pills at the closest pharmacy, and his own (mercifully short-lived) experimentation with self-tanning lotions.

Kurt looked around. About half of the team looked as surprised as he was, while the other half had continued with their warm-ups, chatting quietly. He raised an eyebrow at Sasha, a second alto who was stretching on the ground next to him. "I was expecting blood," he admitted, making her snort.

"He did get off easy," she agreed with a grin.

Kurt nodded. "I think it's because _someone_ brought out the big guns today," he confided dryly, giving a barely perceptible nod to Dakota's 3½" platform boots. Blaine, already in his dance shoes, was still a couple of inches taller, but not enough to inflame Dakota's raging Napoleon Complex.

Sasha rolled her eyes. "I'm sure that's helping," she agreed, "but everyone knows the real reason."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. He did _not_ know the real reason. "Do tell," he entreated.

Sasha leaned forward. "Jesse carried his things for him in from the parking lot," she whispered furtively, "and he may or may not have hinted that our newest member recently suffered a traumatic head injury—still a darling little performer, of course, but _super_ aggro and likely to snap and attack if directly insulted."

Kurt stared. "He did _what?_" he hissed, glaring at Jesse, who was walking down the aisle toward the stage with Blaine.

Sasha shrugged. "Saved him, didn't it?" she pointed out. "And it's not like anyone's actually going to believe that Blaine's a rabid dog, not as sweet and shy as he is." She cocked her head, thinking. "More like a sleepy, adorable puppy," she decided.

Kurt shook his head, still pissed. "I know that," he protested. "But how do you think he's going to feel when he finds out that that's what everyone has been saying behind his back?"

Sasha didn't get the chance to answer. As Jesse climbed up the steps to the stage, Dakota turned on his headset and called rehearsal to order.

"All right, people, everyone into formation," he demanded. "I want to see the numbers we're saving, and if you don't make me hang myself in despair with your serious lack of talent, we'll move on to new choreography."

He watched with unamused satisfaction as everyone scrambled to comply. "And anyone who can't do a double pirouette on both sides can get out of my auditorium," he added.

* * *

><p>Kurt was in an inexplicably sour mood by the time he made it home, just after 7pm. It wasn't improved by the vague smell of chicken fried rice that hit him as he walked through the front door. Frowning, he headed straight for the kitchen, kicking off his shoes with slightly more force than was necessary.<p>

Burt was sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by paperwork. "Hey, Buddy," he greeted Kurt, not looking up. "You hungry?"

Kurt dropped his book bag on the counter. "I would have cooked," he pointed out, folding his arms in front of his chest.

Burt shrugged. "I wasn't sure how late you'd be," he explained. "You can still cook, if you don't want Kung Pao."

"I'm not hungry," Kurt lied, snatching his bag up again. "I'm going to take a bath."

* * *

><p>Throwing his bag on his bed and his clothes in the hamper, Kurt twisted the taps on the bathtub, blending the hot and cold streams until he had mixed the coldest temperature he'd be able to stomach—he hated cold baths, but his muscles would thank him later. He poured in a generous amount of lavender bath oil and climbed in, turning off the water when the tub was half-filled. He'd top off the rest with extra-hot water after twenty minutes or so.<p>

On the other side of the door, his cell phone began ringing. Kurt sunk down further in the bath, ignoring it. Everyone he liked enough to talk to would leave a message.

The ringing stopped. A minute later, it started up again. Kurt closed his eyes.

His thoughts drifted. Blaine, Dakota Stanley, music. The new dance steps, more complicated than ever. His parents' anniversary, two weeks away. The new vocal arrangements they'd be getting at rehearsal later that week.

Kurt didn't realize he was humming until the knock on the door cut him off. Looking down at his body, pale and covered in goose bumps from the chilly water, he tugged the shower curtain mostly shut, leaving only his head and shoulders visible from the door. "Come in," he called, covering his hips with a washcloth at the last second. Just in case.

Burt stuck his head in the door. "Jesse's on the house line," he explained. "I told him you were a little busy, but he said it was about vocal evaluations, and I figured you'd want to take it."

Sighing, Kurt reached for the towel rack to the right of the tub and dried his hands. "Thanks," he breathed, stretching out his hand for the phone. Burt gave it to him and placed a tall glass of orange juice next to the tub, looking pointedly at Kurt when he shook his head. Sighing again, Kurt took a sip to appease his dad, who nodded his approval before leaving the room.

After the door closed, Kurt put the phone to his ear. "Jesse," he offered neutrally, taking another small swallow of juice.

He could practically _hear_ Jesse smirking over the phone. "Don't sound so pleased to talk to me," he chastised amusedly. "You ought to be singing my praises right now."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Why? Because you insinuated that Blaine has brain damage to Dakota Stanley and half of the team?" he asked cynically.

"I saved him from being verbally eviscerated, didn't I?" Jesse replied, unknowingly echoing Sasha from before. "You're the one who insists on treating him like a shrinking violet, I thought you'd be pleased that I'm protecting him."

Kurt leaned back in the tub. "It's more the means that I'm wondering about," he pointed out. "And possibly the motivation behind it. Why are you so concerned about him?"

"Why are you?" Jesse countered serenely. "His face is nearly better, he's fitting in fine. What is it about him that has you so interested?"

Kurt froze, unsure of how to answer.

Ironically, Jesse's narcissism spared him from having to think of anything. "Don't even answer that," he added almost immediately, "I'm tired of talking about him. Get out your iPod, I'm working on my piece for Evaluations and I need someone to sing harmonies—decent ones, Nia's tone-deaf vocals are getting to be an annoyance."

Kurt switched the phone to his other ear. "I can't right now, I'm in the bath," he declined.

"Send pictures," Jesse requested promptly.

Kurt rolled his eyes again and hung up.

* * *

><p>Coach Walker loved Kurt more than any of the other students in 9th period gym, because Kurt was one of a handful of VA members that occasionally competed with the school's gymnastics team in order to bump up their ranking. Consequently, when Kurt showed up for class on Wednesday favoring his right leg and looking slightly panicky, she was more than willing to let him sit on a stack of mats and RICE his knee instead of playing in the class's two-week floor hockey tournament. He thanked her, smiling bravely despite his watery eyes, and promised to be better by the next day.<p>

And he would be—he didn't have a first date immediately after school the next day, so how he smelled and the state of his hair wouldn't be nearly as critical on Thursday.

It was five minutes after the final bell had rung, and Kurt had ditched the ice pack in favor of his grey peacoat and complimenting accessories. Blaine had suggested meeting in the parking lot since he'd be following Kurt to the music store in his car, and while the day was certainly warmer and sunnier than the past several had been, it wasn't hot out by any measure.

Still, the sun _had_ heated the black paint of his Navigator nicely, and the light felt pleasant on his face after so many bleak, cloudy afternoons. Succumbing to childish stupidity, Kurt hoisted himself up onto the hood of his car, leaning back on the windshield and closing his eyes. The UV rays were weak at the precipice of winter; he'd be fine without sunscreen for five minutes.

Kurt sighed happily—car lounging was much better than standing next to his car pretending to be busy texting, while actually glancing furtively at each person who came out the door, hoping it was Blaine. He opened his eyes slightly at the thought of Blaine, just in case he'd come out in the thirty seconds Kurt had had his eyes closed. When he didn't spot him, Kurt settled back again, putting a hand behind his head to protect his hair.

Much as he liked being in Vocal Adrenaline, and really couldn't imagine _not_ being on the team, Kurt kind of loved his days off. He wondered vaguely what he'd do if he had an entire week without rehearsals—do all of his homework for the entire year? Catch up on every television show that he'd been neglecting, either too tired or too busy to keep track of what was going on from week to week? Fly to Cabo and spend seven days lounging in a hammock in the shade of a palm tree? Probably a mix of the first two, taking care of the house, and spending time with his friends—most of whom would also be going crazy with a rush of freedom and lack of structure.

It occurred to Kurt suddenly that he hadn't mentioned his plans for the day to his dad, prompting a slight twinge of guilt. He wasn't really in the habit of checking in with Burt about day to day things; he was far too independent and responsible for that, and Burt was a busy man. He liked that Kurt had so many friends, though, even if the majority of them were also teammates, and it would have made him happy to hear that Kurt was spending his open weekday doing something fun with a friend.

As far as his dad was aware, Blaine still _was_ just a friend. He'd have to correct him on that detail at some point, but…

Kurt shrugged inwardly. His dad knew he was gay, knew he had done more than make eyes at other boys from across the cafeteria, but it wasn't really something that either one of them felt comfortable bringing up over the dinner table. Kurt was under the impression that his mom would have been the one to handle those types of discussions, and while that idea made him miss her and the life they should have had together more acutely, he couldn't begrudge his dad for being just one parent, instead of two.

It was easy to keep that aspect of his life to himself, in any case, and he had no problem with that if it made things simpler between him and his dad.

Absently, Kurt began humming. He wondered what kind of music Blaine liked; if he'd like the coffee where they were going. How he took his coffee. How he'd look if Kurt brought him coffee in the morning. How he'd look if Kurt brought him coffee in bed in the morning. How he'd look first thing in the morning, hair tousled and eyes sleep-heavy and warm.

Because that wasn't at all creepy and jumping the gun, given that they hadn't even been out on their first date yet.

"Is that one of our new songs?"

Kurt's eyes flew open. Blaine was standing next to him, clutching the strap on his backpack and smiling gently at Kurt's lapse in attention. Determined to save face, Kurt stretched lazily, making a point not to sit up on the hood of the car.

"It's for next week," he answered easily. "I'm not sure what the new songs are, besides _Highway_, of course." He rooted around in his coat pocket for his keys. "How was the rest of your day?" he asked sweetly.

"Pretty good," Blaine reported, reaching out unnecessarily to steady Kurt as he slid gracefully off the car. "Math made sense today."

Kurt nodded slowly. "Is that unusual?" he wondered, not without sympathy.

Blaine grimaced. "I'm more of an English/History person," he admitted. "I'm better in writing."

"I'll keep that in mind," Kurt replied, smiling. "Anyway, you're on a schedule today, so. Shall we get going?"

He dangled his keys in the air. Blaine smiled back.

* * *

><p>The drive to the music store was a short one, only ten minutes from Carmel. Living where he did, Kurt could see how Blaine had never been there before, but he was definitely in the minority among Carmel's student body. The parking lot was nearly full, and a cursory glance through the window revealed the mostly-teenage clientele.<p>

"On That Note?" Blaine read, clearly amused by the name. "I like it already."

Kurt forced a smile. Blaine was focused on the storefront, and had missed what he himself had noticed before even getting out of the car: five shiny, identical Range Rovers lined up in the third row of the parking lot, all sporting parking passes for Carmel's student lot.

Five cars, or one-fifth of, as it was referred to affectionately, The Fleet: an expensive legion of matching vehicles donated by a group of extremely wealthy benefactors, back when the district's busses were being targeted by rival groups attempting to sabotage Vocal Adrenaline pre-competitions. They were a ridiculous, ostentatious status symbol, and Kurt preferred to use his own car whenever possible.

They were also only allowed to be signed out when the drivers were on Vocal Adrenaline business.

Kurt mentally shook himself, trying to clear his sudden feeling of dread. Maybe Shelby had sent a team to pick up some music, or the altos were practicing their harmonizing in front of an audience. Just because some of his teammates were inside and he didn't know why didn't mean that anything dire was occurring. And in any case, he wasn't going to worry about it today.

He held the door for Blaine. "Yeah, they guy who runs the place is the original owner," he explained. "He's a pretty grizzled Vietnam Vet. He used to keep a shotgun under the counter, but his PTSD flares up every once in a while, so his son-in-law replaced it with a marshmallow gun back in the nineties."

Blaine laughed. "How much of that did you just make up?" he wanted to know.

Kurt shrugged, smiling. "About half," he admitted.

Blaine shook his head, entertained, then looked around the store. "Wow," he breathed. "That is a _lot_ of books. They're all music?"

"Sheet music, biographies, instrument repair manuals, etc. Everything's music related," Kurt explained. "This is the best part, come this way."

He took Blaine's hand and led him to the back corner, where a record player was balanced on top of a four-foot high stack of record sleeves. The shelves around them were lined with vinyl albums. "Go ahead and pick one," Kurt instructed. While Blaine browsed, Kurt lifted _The Stooges_ off the shelf, revealing a hole in the wall. He reached in and grabbed a pair of oversized, puffy headphones.

When he turned around with them, Blaine was holding out an album—The Beatles. Of course. He scanned the picture on the front, trying to remember which songs were on it without looking. "_Yesterday_?" he guessed, deciding it felt rather Blaine-ish.

Blaine shook his head, brow wrinkling at Kurt's speculation. "_I've Just Seen a Face,_" he stated, sounding…almost confused that Kurt would think otherwise.

It was the last track that Kurt would have guessed. He couldn't hide his grin as he set up the needle.

* * *

><p>They ended up listening to half the album, singing along, headphones flipped out so that each boy had a squashy black earpiece. Glancing discreetly at his watch, Kurt noticed that it was nearly four—the afternoon was flying by, much to his dismay.<p>

"Do you want to go get some coffee?" he asked. "The chairs in the café are incredible—I'd steal one and swap it out for my bed, if it wouldn't get me banned from the premises."

Blaine laughed. "How could I say no to that?" he asked rhetorically. He gestured for Kurt to lead the way.

Kurt did, weaving around bookshelves and the baby grand piano. Passing behind the Glam Rock shelf, they had nearly reached the café entrance when he heard a voice on the other side utter a very familiar name. He stopped short and listened, barely feeling Blaine crashing lightly into his shoulder.

"You're in Vocal Adrenaline," the girl continued. Kurt peeked through the small gap above the books in the shelving.

And of course, there he was. "And you're Rachel Berry," Jesse said, smirking lightly, before proceeding to tear the girl's Sectionals performance to shreds.

Well, at least that was nothing new. Still, if this was the girl Shelby wanted him to make friends with, Kurt wasn't too impressed with his methodology.

"Kurt," Blaine asked, sounding a little worried, "are you ok?"

Kurt shook himself and forced a smile. "Yeah," he promised. "I'm fine, everything's fine. I just thought I heard—"

"Oh look, Jesse's here," Blaine pointed out, looking at Jesse's retreating figure as he led the girl over to the piano. "Do we know the girl he's with? She looks really familiar, for some reason."

"You're right," Kurt agreed absently, staring at Rachel. "She looks a lot like Shelby."

The second the words were out of his mouth, all of the pieces fell into place. _Rachel. Shelby. Jesse meeting Rachel on Shelby's behalf. Rachel looks like Shelby, Rachel sings lead in her Glee club, Rachel is the password to everything Shelby touches. _

_Holy. Shit. _

"She does," Blaine agreed, sounding both pleased and completely unaware of the mental epiphany going on right next to him. "They sound good together."

Kurt took a few calming breaths. A group of musicians seated on the nearby couches joined in suddenly as the duo sang—members of the school orchestra, Kurt recognized. Which would explain the cavalcade of SUVs in the parking lot, he realized. "Well, Jesse's always been a little bit in love with Shelby. He must like her," he said dryly. "Jesse never sings Lionel Richie. At least not without transposing it to better fit his natural range."

Blaine nodded. "Is he…"

He trailed off. Kurt looked at him curiously. "Is he what?" he prompted gently.

Blaine flushed a little. "Is he straight, then? I kind of wondered."

Kurt felt his stomach lurch horribly. Irrational jealousy whipped through him, and he could practically _hear _his heart pounding in his chest.

Luckily, his rational brain took over before he could say anything. He took another deep breath. "That's sort of a complicated question," he admitted, looking at Blaine. "Did he say something to you, or…"

"No! No, it's not that," Blaine interrupted quickly. He looked down sheepishly. "It's just—his hair is just so well styled," he confessed.

Kurt burst out laughing. "I can see how you might infer his sexuality from that," he agreed, feeling a massive sense of relief. "Let me buy you a coffee, you can ask me anything you want."

Kurt forewent his usual order in favor of a cinnamon mocha, knowing that the specialty drink would be gone by Christmas. Unsurprisingly, Blaine chose the same. Kurt paid, and picked up an oversized gingerbread boy cookie for them (Blaine) to snack on, while Blaine grabbed a stack of napkins and found a table next to the window.

He was bouncing gingerly on his seat cushion when Kurt carried everything over. "You were right about these chairs," he enthused, "there has got to be some sort of futuristic memory foam in here or something."

Kurt slid the ceramic plate with the cookie on it towards Blaine. "Exactly," he agreed. "I never get any studying done here; I'm always beset with the urge to curl up and sleep forever." He settled back in his seat, watching as Blaine took a cautious sip of his drink, considered it, and went back for more.

"So," he said suddenly, cupping his coffee mug with both hands. "It's been a few weeks. Be honest—what do you think of Carmel?"

Blaine looked taken aback. "I like it," he said quickly. "Why wouldn't I?"

Kurt shrugged. "I don't know, plenty of reasons," he offered, smiling. "I'm not going to be offended or report you to the school board if you hate it here, you know. I was just wondering what you thought."

Blaine took another sip of coffee, considering. "I do like it," he insisted, more slowly. "Much better than my old school, anyway."

Kurt paused. Blaine had never talked about his old school, and he'd been extremely hesitant to broach the subject himself. "Do you keep in touch with anyone you went to school with?" he asked cautiously, fingers crossed under the table that Blaine wouldn't get upset.

Blaine shrugged. "Not really. I haven't, like, de-friended everyone on Facebook," he explained, "but even before everything, it hadn't been the same with my friends for a while."

He smiled sadly. "I think that's why I wasn't sure about Jesse," he told Kurt. "Because I thought he was probably gay, but I see him with girls sometimes. But then I see the way he looks at you sometimes, and I think that that's exactly how most of the people I thought might be gay would act at my old school, because it wasn't really okay to_ say_ that you were, and…I'm rambling now. Sorry."

He looked out the window, cheeks red with embarrassment.

Kurt took a deep breath. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "First of all, you know you're safe here, right?" he wanted to know. "Nobody is ever going to say anything to you about being gay, and if they did, a report to the school authorities would get them punished. Two weeks of detention, bare minimum. And you're in Vocal Adrenaline."

He smiled, nudging Blaine's foot with his own. "I don't know if you've noticed, but we're pretty popular around Carmel," he reminded Blaine. "The academics and sports teams are great, don't get me wrong, but the student body knows exactly why their college applications are going to get the attention they deserve, and it isn't because our tennis team wins big every year."

Blaine nudged back halfheartedly. "People are staring less," he admitted, "and nobody's been mean or anything." He shrugged. "I'm still working on the whole 'making friends' thing, but I think I'd be struggling with that anywhere I went."

Kurt broke off the tiniest bit of cookie. "You're going to be great," he promised. "And actually, I'm making you promise me right now that you'll let me ride your coattails when you have more friends than I do—I don't take particularly well to being upstaged."

Blaine finally smiled at that. "Deal," he promised, breaking off a gingerbread limb and using it to stir his coffee.

Kurt smiled back. "As for Jesse," he sighed, "I don't blame you for being confused. Jesse's…whatever he needs to be at any given moment. Is with whomever he needs to be with, for whatever reasons he has. I'm not entirely certain his sexuality really factors into it."

Blaine frowned. "But…I mean, don't people ask him?" he wondered. "His friends, or the people he's—_with_?"

Kurt shrugged. "Would you ask someone a question like that point blank?" he asked.

Blaine mirrored his shrug. "I guess I see your point," he conceded. "I just can't understand that. I can't imagine being with someone like that and not meaning it."

Kurt took another sip of coffee, but didn't answer.

Blaine flushed red again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply—I mean, relationships and…_sex_, I guess. They clearly aren't the same for everyone," he backpedaled.

He paused. "Did you and Jesse ever—"

"No," Kurt cut him off. "Emphatically no."

He traced his finger on the table, swirling a drip of water around in a circle. "Not with anyone, really. I mean, I've had boyfriends before, and I've done other things, but never _that._"

He could feel his cheeks heating up with slight embarrassment. He wanted to press his face to the window, just to cool it down—he knew how unattractive he was when he blushed—but decided against it. Smashing his face up against a pane of glass would probably just draw more attention to it.

Blaine, on the other hand, looked beautiful, glowing with relief. "Me neither," he assured Kurt. "I've kissed a few girls and a couple boys," he admitted. "At parties, or when I was trying to figure myself out, but you're my first boyfriend, and I could never really lie to myself long enough to have a girlfriend, so…"

Kurt listened when Blaine spoke most of the time. He really did. It was just that sometimes, Blaine would say something, and Kurt's brain would short circuit and nothing else would get through.

For example: _"You're my first boyfriend."_

"_My first boyfriend. Boyfriend."_

Kurt was Blaine's boyfriend.

Blaine's boyfriend smiled like an idiot. "Yeah?" he asked, delighted, but wanting to be absolutely sure he hadn't hallucinated that bit if knowledge.

Luckily, Blaine seemed to understand his head state. "Yeah," he agreed, smiling back.

He glanced at his watch. "I've got to get going," he said, voice tinged with regret. "Walk me to my car?"

Kurt nearly knocked the chair over as he scrambled to his feet.

* * *

><p>Blaine held Kurt's hand all the way out into the parking lot. He sighed as they reached his car. "I don't really want to go," he confessed, looking at Kurt though his eyelashes.<p>

Kurt smiled sympathetically. "I don't really want you to go either," he admitted, reaching out and straightening the lapel of Blaine's coat. "So while normally I'd tell you to 'have fun', I'm going to be obstinate and refuse this time."

Blaine looked at him, smiling gently. "I like you," he said seriously, reaching forward and tugging on Kurt's scarf.

Kurt let himself be dragged in, let himself be kissed. He wrapped his hand around the back of Blaine's neck, pulling him in closer until he could taste the cinnamon on Blaine's tongue and feel the warmth of his skin.

He lost himself in Blaine, just letting himself feel, for a long, long moment.

Finally, Blaine pushed him away. "Okay, now I really do have to go," he said, laughing. Kurt leaned in and nipped at his bottom lip, dark red from Kurt and the cold, one last time before backing away so that Blaine could open the door to his car.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he promised. Blaine smiled back.

He waved as Blaine drove out of the parking lot.

Correction: He waved as _his boyfriend_ drove out of the parking lot.

God, he was never going to get over that.

He checked the time on his phone—4:35. He had plenty of time to get another coffee, but honestly didn't feel like it, since Blaine had gone. Instead, he found himself crossing the parking lot toward the drugstore next door. As he walked, he passed four empty spaces next to the lone remaining Range Rover.

* * *

><p>Emerging from the store a few minutes later with a gallon of orange juice (mango-raspberry flavored, extra-pulp) and a tub of lip balm (spearmint and lavender), Kurt walked briskly to his car. The weather that had been nearly perfect earlier was beginning to turn, and the harsh wind was picking up, numbing his ears. Fishing his keys out of his pocket, he quickly opened the door, throwing his bag onto the passenger seat and closing the door behind him.<p>

It was only then that he saw the note on his windshield.

Reopening the car door, Kurt pulled the pink slip of paper out from under the windshield wiper and unfolded it. It contained only a single sentence:

_How did the first date go?_

Paling, Kurt looked across the parking lot.

The Range Rover was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9/?, short but informative :D

As usual, thank you to everyone who leaves their comments and reviews, I love and appreciate every single one. If reviewing normally isn't your thing, please consider it; I usually don't ask, but this is new territory for me, story-wise, and I'd love to hear how you think it's going.

Also as usual, I don't own anything. Dapper sadness.

* * *

><p>Kurt didn't hear from Jesse that night.<p>

Nor did he see him the next morning at school. Kurt kept an eye out for him at lunch—Jesse had a habit of tracking him down in the cafeteria whenever he wanted to talk about something—but the other boy was being uncharacteristically elusive. He kept his eyes peeled in the halls, made excuses to walk past the music wing, did everything short of actually asking anyone else if they'd seen him.

Nothing.

By the time he'd made it to his final class, Kurt had resigned himself to a very awkward rehearsal that afternoon: simultaneously dealing with Jesse's passive-aggressive manipulation, without letting on to Blaine that anything was out of the ordinary, was going to be a tough balancing act. Maybe he should take his dad's facetious suggestion, and start doing drugs 'like all the other kids'; the stoners who hung out in the parking lot during free periods didn't seem to have nearly as many complicated social interactions as he did.

So, of course, Jesse walked into Kurt's gym class less than two minutes after the bell rang. "Excuse me, Coach Walker?" he asked politely, clasping his hands in front of him and not looking at Kurt. "I need to borrow Kurt Hummel from you, if it's not too much trouble."

Coach Walker frowned at him—unsurprisingly, Kurt thought. It was public knowledge that Coach Walker disliked the Stuntman system, and Jesse hadn't set foot in the gym since he was a freshman. "Kurt has class right now, Jesse," she pointed out. "Unless you're here on behalf of one of the administrative offices, you're going to have to wait until later."

Jesse's charming smile grew extra-syrupy. "Ms. Corcoran heard about Kurt's knee," he explained apologetically. "She called in Dr. Lachman to take a look at it, just to make sure it was nothing serious."

Coach Walker might not have thought much of Jesse, but Kurt could tell that his argument on his behalf was winning her over, at least temporarily. "That might be a good idea," she admitted, softening. "Why don't you go ahead and see the specialist, Kurt? If the doctor clears you and there's still time left, you can sub into a game."

Kurt thought briefly about protesting, but knew he couldn't do it without offering up some sort of explanation that Jesse would see through. And, in any case, it was probably for the best if they got any sort of argument out of the way before rehearsal. Knowing he was beaten, then, he gathered his things and left with Jesse, shooting Coach Walker a huge, fake smile on the way out the door.

She smiled back, not knowing the difference.

* * *

><p>"Do you need help walking to the music office?" Jesse offered, as Kurt shut the door behind them.<p>

Kurt rolled his eyes. "My knee's fine," he reminded Jesse.

Jesse shrugged. "Just trying to help a friend," he replied lightly. He smiled brightly. "We _are _friends, aren't we?" he asked pointedly. "I mean, _I _thought we were, but what kind of friend goes on a first date with a cute boy and keeps it a secret?"

Kurt sighed. "The kind of friend who wants a second date," he explained, not even bothering to ask Jesse how he found out—some questions were simply an exercise in futility. "And anyway, you know why I didn't tell you," he added. "Don't make it my fault."

Jesse's eyes were wide. "I don't know what you mean, Kurt," he said innocently.

Kurt didn't bother to reply. Turing away from Jesse, he started walking down the hall toward the music office.

Jesse easily matched his stride. "I really don't," he insisted earnestly.

A tone, Kurt knew, that Jesse only employed dishonestly. He glanced despairingly at the ceiling, not slowing his pace. "Cast your mind back," he suggested wryly. "All the way to last spring, if you can."

Jesse scoffed. "Are you still mad about the David Clark thing?" he wondered aloud. "All I said was that I thought you were too young to be dating a senior, and that you could do better than that jerk." He smiled at the memory. "In fact, I specifically remember saying that you were free to make your own decisions," he added triumphantly.

Kurt wasn't impressed. "You poured cat urine in his shoes," he stated flatly.

Jesse's expression didn't budge. "Nobody can prove that," he said dismissively.

Kurt continued to glare. "You did it in front of him."

"His word against mine," Jesse breezed.

Kurt scowled. "It happened," he said decisively. "And he was afraid to come near me until graduation."

Jesse's mouth twisted. "I'll admit that that looks bad," he allowed. "But if he was too cowardly to deal with a little harmless scrutiny from your friends, was he really someone you wanted to be dating anyway?"

Kurt stopped walking. "Not friends," he clarified. "Just you. You're the only one who does this. And news flash, Jesse," he said, looking Jesse coldly in the eye.

"You don't own me."

For the briefest moment, Kurt thought he saw a flash of something like hurt in Jesse's eye. He smiled so quickly, though, that Kurt was sure he must have imagined it.

"Of course I don't," Jesse agreed. "That doesn't mean I don't care about you, though."

Kurt felt something deep inside of him soften. He refused to let it show. "Then let me be happy," he countered. "That's what I want. _Blaine_ is what I want."

Jesse didn't respond.

"_Promise_ me you won't interfere," Kurt pressed.

There was a pause. Then, slowly, Jesse nodded. "I just want what's best for you," he explained, "even on the days when you don't know what that is.

"But that's not really what I wanted to talk to you about," he continued, changing topics suddenly. "I wanted to know what you thought of Rachel."

"She's the spitting image of her mother," Kurt replied, before he could stop himself.

"She is, isn't she?" Jesse agreed happily, not even trying to deny the connection. The surprise must have shown on Kurt's face, because Jesse smirked understandingly at him. "Shelby asked me not to tell anyone who she was," he explained. "But it's hardly my fault if you figured it out on your own. And certainly nobody could have predicted that you would both be in the same music store at the time of our meeting."

Kurt frowned. "How did you know that she was going to be there?" he wanted to know. "When you said you were going to meet her, I thought you were actually going to McKinley."

Jesse smiled dreamily. "Kurt, a high school is not the proper environment for a romantic pursuit," he chastised lightly. "We followed her from the parking lot and staged a spontaneous encounter."

Kurt ignored Jesse's complete misconception of the idea of spontaneity. "Wait, you're dating her now?" he asked incredulously. "What does Shelby have to say about that? And how did you manage to tail her in five Range Rovers without her noticing?"

"She's a little self-absorbed," Jesse said evenly. "I don't think that's the sort of thing she notices. We're going to the movies on Friday. _A Christmas Carol_ is a very uplifting, family-friendly film; I'm sure Shelby will give us her blessing.

"Speaking of Shelby," Jesse continued, face suddenly businesslike, "I had a very interesting conversation with her after my voice lesson today. Well," he amended, "it was actually fairly dull. But it concerns you in part, so you'd probably find it interesting."

He paused dramatically. Kurt waited for him to continue, determined not to show any nerves or emotion unless Jesse's report gave him a reason to.

A trick he'd picked up from Jesse, in fact.

Jesse nodded slightly with approval. "If things go the way that I think they will, I might be leaving for a little while," he announced. "I'd be back in time for Nationals, definitely, but there's the very slight possibility that I'd miss Regionals."

Kurt's stomach dropped. "_What?_" he hissed, too shocked to figure out exactly what he was feeling. "Why the hell would Shelby let you go? _Where _would you even go?" he sputtered.

Jesse shook his head. "I can't tell you yet," he said, sounding regretful. "And it might not even happen. Shelby and I were just talking about what we'd do with my many solos in the meantime—just in case, you understand. She wanted to know my opinion."

He smiled nonchalantly.

Kurt swallowed. "If you said anyone but me, I'm shaving your head when you're asleep," he croaked dryly, allowing himself to fall into the regular rhythm of their interaction. "I'm serious," he added, when Jesse laughed.

Jesse looked amused. "I know you are," he assured him. "I actually suggested that she give the solo she's planning on giving to Andrea to you instead. Andrea's a moderately gifted singer and a very talented dancer, but one or the other suffers when she tries to do both." He looked archly at Kurt. "You don't have that problem."

Kurt suppressed his smile. "What about your solos?" he asked. "Shelby was going to announce the new lineup today, and we all know she was going to give you at least three."

Jesse nodded. "That she was," he acknowledged. "And for two of them, there isn't any one person vocally talented enough to pull them off to my ability. I suggested that she split them."

He smiled mysteriously at Kurt. "All except for _Bohemian Rhapsody_," he added, clearly enjoying Kurt's eyes widen at the song selection. "I thought maybe your new flame could try it out, see how he handles the pressure."

He looked closely at Kurt. "You look stunned by my decision," he observed.

"I am," Kurt admitted honestly, throat suddenly dry. "I didn't think you'd ever heard him sing. And don't get me wrong; he's a great singer, and he deserves it," he backpedaled quickly, before Jesse could read anything into his obvious shock. "It's just—he's so new, and untested. I figured you'd suggest—"

"You?" Jesse finished knowingly, smirking slightly.

Kurt glared. "Someone with more experience," he corrected, voice clipped.

Jesse nodded. "He's a gamble, it's true," he agreed. "But as I've said before, he has a lot of potential. I'm interested to see how far he could go. If he turns out to be as good as I think he is, he might even challenge you for the top spot next year."

Kurt took a deep breath to object. And paused.

Jesse's criticism had stung, but it wasn't entirely without merit. Blaine _was_ incredibly talented. Kurt knew that, probably more so that anyone else in Vocal Adrenaline did. And there was no question that he was hardworking and dedicated. Maybe he didn't have experience on his side, but he'd certainly have it by September.

Had Jesse picked anyone else, Kurt would have been quick to point out the many ways in which he himself was the vocal superior. But Jesse hadn't picked anyone else; he had chosen Blaine. And Kurt couldn't bring himself to disparage Blaine's abilities, even to defend his own talent.

_Plus, _a very small, hateful part of him acknowledged, _Blaine was just talented enough that anything you say to make yourself sound better might not be true._

Jesse seemed to pick up on at least some of his thoughts. "Here's the thing, Kurt," he offered, in the same even tone that he used to deliver both compliments and scathing criticisms. "Your range is impressive, much more so than most singers. And if you were competing on an individual level, that would absolutely be your strongest asset. But you want to front a show choir," he pointed out. "And there are other male singers, here and in the competition circuit, that sound more smoothly masculine than you do."

He shook his head. "If you'd just let us dress you up as a girl," he began, restarting an argument they'd had countless times before.

"I'm not a girl," Kurt interrupted flatly, "and you're not putting me onstage in a dress, just to make the judges more comfortable with my vocal range."

Jesse shrugged. "I'm not a tree," he said easily. "But I dressed up like one in the third grade, and that performance paid my Performing Arts School tuition for the next five years. Sometimes, you need to get out of your own way in order to make things happen for you, Kurt."

Kurt sighed. "I know," he answered, defeated.

Jesse shook his head. "No, you don't," he disagreed. "Kurt, _Shelby_ is the one making the decision about solos, and next year's soloists," he stressed. "You're letting yourself get caught up in my opinion, when hers is the one that really matters."

Kurt frowned. "You're saying that like you have no influence over what she does," he pointed out.

Jesse ignored him. "If you want her to think that you're better than everyone else, you have to show her that you are," he insisted. "Prove to her that you can do things that she thinks you can't—make yourself not the obvious choice, but the _only _choice."

They had long since reached the music office. "I'm keeping my solos for now," Jesse told Kurt. "Don't tell anyone I might be leaving, and don't tell Blaine that he's up for consideration."

He looked hard at Kurt.

Kurt sighed. "I won't," he promised.

Jesse smiled. "Good," he replied. "Have fun at physical therapy." Waving goodbye, he walked back down the hall.

Once Jesse had turned the corner, Kurt opened the door to the office.

It was empty.

* * *

><p>At rehearsal that afternoon, Shelby announced the six new songs that Vocal Adrenaline would be developing for the next stage of the competition season. Two of them were group numbers; three were assigned to Jesse, with varying levels of vocal support from the choir.<p>

The last song, she told them, was also a solo. While she had a few people in mind for the part, the final decision would be announced the morning following Vocal Evaluations.

Kurt felt Blaine take his hand as the others broke out in whispers around them. It was very rare for anyone other than the lead soloist to be given a song, particularly one that could potentially be used in competition.

Without looking at Blaine, Kurt squeezed back.

* * *

><p><em>Next up: Blaine's POV, Vocal Evaluations, and a Bombshell of Minor Proportions. <em>


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10/?, now with extra bombast!

No spoilers, just love. Thank you for all your kind reviews, and please don't hate me too much for some of the stunts I pull here—I promise not to leave you hanging for too long. We're back to Blaine, which of course means more **Warnings:** this chapter does contain references to pharmaceutical misuse. They're slight and barely there, but they do exist; read at your own peril.

I don't own anything, including the music. I do own a tumblr, though, so stay tuned for some semi-exciting announcements :)

* * *

><p>Blaine felt truly sorry for anyone who wasn't dating Kurt Hummel.<p>

It had only been a week since they'd first kissed, and Blaine didn't have much firsthand experience to compare their relationship with, it was true. Still, even when he forced himself to be objective, it was pretty clear that Kurt was an _excellent _boyfriend. If there was a door to be held open, Kurt held it. He always had a smile for Blaine, even after three hours of dancing, when Blaine was sure the amount of sweat pouring down his face and matting his hair was beyond disgusting.

And on Friday, he fulfilled the promise he had made earlier in the week, walking into History with a neatly wrapped sack of gingerbread cookies and a slight bounce in his step.

"Your shampoo smells like lilacs," Kurt had mentioned, when Blaine ran his finger over the light purple ribbon tying the bag closed. "I was going to go with another, more fall-appropriate color, but…I don't know. It made me think of you."

In retrospect, it was probably fortunate that the bell had rung when it had. Blaine wasn't sure what Carmel's policy on Kissing the Life Out of Someone In Class was, but he was willing to bet it merited at least a detention.

Continuing his awesome boyfriend trend, Kurt even called Blaine from the shop on Saturday morning to help him with his math homework. When Blaine protested that Kurt didn't have to, that he'd figure it out on his own eventually (he wouldn't), Kurt managed to talk him around without making him feel bad.

"Trust me, you're doing me a favor," Kurt had assured him. "Jesse's UCLA audition is today; I've already spent the last two hours stroking his ego. I'm completely out of compliments now, so it's probably best for everyone involved if I'm too busy to answer the phone when he drives home."

That had made Blaine laugh, but he still hadn't gotten out his textbook until Kurt had made him. "I'm being selfish, I want you worry-free when I pick you up tonight," he had explained, "which means no unfinished math homework lingering in your subconscious. Plus, the reason I'm on my headset is that I'm on my back underneath a mini-van right now—I'm begging you to distract me from the motor sludge that's pooling on my stomach. I look like Shakira circa _La Tortura_ right now."

Blaine finished his math homework. And spent a shameful amount of time on Youtube that afternoon, wondering if Kurt had any interest in moving to Colombia after high school.

* * *

><p>In another instance of circumstances that were disappointing-but-probably-for-the-best, Kurt was freshly showered and impeccably dressed when he pulled into Blaine's driveway early that evening. Blaine, anxious to avoid questioning from his parents—he'd told them that Kurt and some others were taking him to get new shoes for Vocal Adrenaline, which was at least partly true—was waiting for him on the porch.<p>

"You're, like, _exactly_ on time," he pointed out, holding out his watch for Kurt to see.

Kurt took his wrist in both hands, not bothering to look down. "So, I probably shouldn't tell you that I've been parked around the corner for about ten minutes, waiting for 5:29, then. Should I?" he mused, smiling.

Blaine laughed. "You did not," he chastised lightly, making Kurt adopt a sheepish expression and flutter his eyelashes at the ground.

"You're right, I didn't," he agreed. "It was more like fifteen."

He placed a small, openmouthed kiss on the inside of Blaine's wrist, making Blaine shiver slightly at the sensation. "Shall we?"

Blaine watched his house disappear in the side-view mirror. Though he couldn't see them in the distorted reflection, he knew that both of his parents' cars were in the garage, along with his own. His parents had been almost farcically excited when Blaine had told them that he was meeting a few friends at the mall, and that they might be getting dinner afterwards. His mother had pressed a twenty dollar bill into his hands, insisting that he have a good time, while his father offered to extend his curfew, if they decided they wanted to stay out later.

"Just call and let us know what your plans are," he'd said, as if one of them hadn't said it nearly every single time Blaine had left the house for something other than school for…five weeks, now.

Blaine paused to contemplate that. Five weeks. In some ways, it seemed like longer.

He wondered how his parents would have reacted if Blaine had told them that, while he _was_ going to the mall and out to dinner, the friends were imaginary, and the beautiful boy giving him a ride was really his date. Not just his date, but his _boyfriend_, whose creamy skin was flawless and soft, who was gentle and smart and witty and patient and made Blaine feel like something inside of him that had been long dormant was unfurling and coming back to life.

Apprehensive looks, probably. Plastic smiles. Pointed questions about Blaine's emotional state and judgment, justified by their overwhelming 'concern for his _safety_'. The three of them talking in circles around everything, never saying exactly what it was that they meant to say.

Kurt's slim fingers were tapping on the steering wheel, matching the rhythm of the radio. "I know it's early, but are you hungry?" he asked. "I didn't make reservations—the philistines of Ohio don't appreciate good Thai food when they taste it, apparently—so we can go before or after getting your shoes; whatever you want."

Blaine shrugged, trying not to smile at Kurt's rambling. "I'm all right with either," he promised. "What about you, though, you were working all day."

Kurt made a disgusted face. "There was an unfortunate incident involving jelly donuts at the shop this afternoon," he said darkly. "It was very traumatizing and I'd rather not speak of it, but I think I can hold off on eating for another hour or so."

Blaine nodded solemnly, making a mental note to never eat donuts in front of Kurt.

He heard a careful, steeling intake of breath next to him; glanced over to see Kurt's hands tightening on the steering wheel. "If this is too weird, please feel free to say no," Kurt said, almost too calmly.

Curious, Blaine turned his head to really look at him. Kurt was avoiding his eye, looking straight out the windshield and biting his bottom lip nervously.

Blaine felt the strange, sudden urge to climb over the console and kiss him, to run his tongue soothingly over the darkening spot on Kurt's lip and lick into his mouth.

He had no idea where that thought had come from. He shook his head roughly.

"…and I know it's a waste of money, since she's been gone for so long and it's just my dad and I, but it's a rough day for him especially, and it would have been their eighteenth this year, so," Kurt was saying. "It's not until next Monday, so I still have time to get him something if I don't go tonight."

He looked hopefully at Blaine. Even with his inappropriate-for-a-second-date lapse in attention, Blaine had managed to work out what Kurt was trying to ask. "I don't think that's weird," he said honestly. "I think it's sweet that you do that for him."

It was the right thing to say—Kurt's smile was small, but his eyes shown with warmth as he reached across the seat and squeezed Blaine's hand.

* * *

><p>Getting new shoes to replace the worn starter pair given to him by Shelby was simple—Kurt knew which store sold all three acceptable styles and Blaine liked the feel of the kind he had, so it was only a matter of requesting the proper size from the sales clerk and trying them on to be sure they fit right. Picking out an anniversary present for Kurt's dad was a little more difficult. Blaine had never met either of Kurt's parents, and somehow he didn't think that the restaurant gift certificate he usually gave his own parents for their anniversary was the type of thing Kurt was looking for.<p>

Kurt was struggling as well: after dismissing the mall's gift shop and sporting goods store out of hand, he had ended up in front of the mall's oversized map kiosk, scanning the list of department stores and specialty shops with a semi-defeated look on his face. Blaine held his hand, wishing that there were fewer people around so that he could wrap his arms around Kurt from behind, the way he wanted to; tucking his face into Kurt's neck and whispering anything and everything he could think of to soothe the anxiety he could sense building up in Kurt's head.

"Blaine?"

A voice called out his name from across the atrium, and Blaine turned to look. And froze.

Samantha Matthews was walking hesitantly toward him, an apprehensive look on her face.

Blaine couldn't move. A hand wrapped itself around his bicep. "Quick, is she a friend or not a friend?" Kurt whispered, eying Sam as she approached before turning back to look at Blaine.

Blaine stared back blankly, stricken and unable to process the question. How could he explain to Kurt that the girl walking toward them, whose sudden appearance had him rooted to the spot, had until this year been his best friend—the girl he'd done theatre with, sat next to in classes, consoled on the phone after every bad date or breakup? The girl who had suddenly forgotten how to look him in the eye when he had come out at the end of freshman year?

"Blaine, hi." Sam was next to them now—he'd missed her approaching while tangled in his thoughts. "It's nice to see you," she offered gently.

Blaine, mouth dry, didn't answer. His grip tightened on Kurt's hand—he absently noticed Kurt wince out of the corner of his eye, but couldn't think straight enough to connect the two and loosen his hold.

Sam must have noticed Kurt too, because she had turned to him and was introducing herself. "Kurt Hummel," Kurt said in return, shaking her proffered hand with his free one. "Blaine's boyfriend."

Sam's eyes widened, but she didn't say anything or jerk her hand away, the way Blaine almost expected. He noticed that Kurt hadn't told Sam that it was nice to meet her, and that his greeting, while still polite, was the least effusive one Blaine had ever seen him give. He was clearly withholding his good opinion until Blaine gave him an indication that it was all right, and Blaine felt a rush of gratitude toward him for that.

Sam was looking at him again, her big grey eyes too large in her face. "Blaine, I…" she fumbled a bit, twisting the strap of her purse with her fingers. She took a deep breath. "I don't know what to say, really. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. How sorry we all are," she managed. "I know we weren't as…supportive, as we could have been when you, you know," she forced out.

Blaine wasn't sure what in particular she was referencing (His coming out? The 'special counseling' he'd been singled out for by the nuns who taught Religious Ed? Getting the crap kicked out of him?) but wasn't about to ask.

"But you have to know that none of us knew what was going to happen at the dance," she pleaded earnestly. "We were horrified when we heard about it. I tried to come see you at the hospital, but they wouldn't let me in since I wasn't family, and then you never came back to school, and…"

She trailed off, biting her lip the way Kurt had done earlier. It didn't make Blaine heat up inside, the way Kurt had. Instead, his brain was producing images and memories of Sam, of all their friends from drama club and youth group and classes. Hanging out without him, 'forgetting' to call him because his newly revealed orientation made them uncomfortable. The stilted conversations, the way that only the most innocuous, shallow topics were permissible, because anything deeper meant eye contact and feelings and the pink elephant that was Blaine's sexuality forcing a gap in between them.

He wondered how they found out what had happened, the night of the dance. None of them had been involved, he knew that much, but that was all he knew. None of them had stayed in touch after The Incident. Blaine hadn't called any of them either, telling himself that he didn't care and that he didn't want anything to do with anyone or anything from his old school. A fresh start, of sorts; a blank slate.

It occurred to Blaine, as Kurt's hand tightened even further over his own, that 'not caring' was probably the opposite of what he'd really meant.

Samantha was looking at them again. "Listen, I know…"

She paused. "You probably don't want to see any of us, after what happened," she said sadly, tone resigned. "But if you decide that you do, we'd all love to see you."

Her eyes were brighter than normal, shining with unshed tears, and Blaine found himself nodding. "I might," he offered civilly, knowing even as he said it that he probably never would. It wasn't that he didn't miss them, didn't miss the friendships he had had or ache at the memories of times _before _that cropped up with painful regularity. It was just…

For him, The Incident had been the final breaking point, after months of painful splintering—like a joint bent too far in the wrong direction. The beginning of the end hadn't happened the night of the dance, it had happened back in June.

And as much as he wanted to believe otherwise, he didn't think his former friends were capable of going back to the way things were before any more than he was.

Sam was nodding unhappily. "Okay," she agreed. "All right." She looked at Kurt, who had switched the hand holding Blaine's in order to wrap his arm supportively around Blaine's waist. "It was nice to meet you," she offered, receiving a nod, and the hint of a smile, in return.

"I'm glad you're doing well, Blaine," she said softly, before waving her hand uncertainly in parting. Blaine watched her go with steady eyes.

It wasn't until she had turned the corner and disappeared completely that the air in the room seemed suddenly too thin; the muscles wrapped around his bones giving out as he melted into Kurt's chest.

Kurt's arms were around him instantly, holding him securely as Blaine took breath after shaking breath, hands fisted in the soft fabric of Kurt's shirt. "It's okay, shh, it's okay," he murmured into Blaine's hair, rubbing circles into Blaine's back. "She's gone, it's okay."

Blaine nodded his agreement into Kurt's shoulder. All the wind had been knocked out of him, as if he had been punched in the stomach, and his legs felt rickety and unstable, but his eyes were dry.

Finally, he straightened back up—he wanted to stay in Kurt's comforting grasp forever, but even he could recognize how pathetic that was—taking one last deep breath and willing the trembling to stop.

Kurt was looking at him carefully, his expression a mixture of worried and hopeful. "You okay?" he asked gently.

Blaine nodded, not entirely trusting himself to speak quite yet.

"Do you want to get out of here?" Kurt wanted to know.

Another nod. He didn't want to go home, or end the evening early, but the idea of running into Sam or any of their other friends made his stomach flip uncomfortably.

He sighed. If he were a stronger person, or if his life were an After School Special, this would be the moment that he decided to stop letting what had happened to him dictate his life, or to stand up and show the world that he was proud to be himself, no matter what anyone else thought. But he wasn't, and it wasn't, and right now, he didn't care enough to be strong and brave. He just wanted to be anywhere else.

_Somewhere _else, in particular. Blaine checked his watch—almost 6:30. Just enough time.

"Okay," Kurt was saying. "My dad is probably home by now, but he won't mind if we're there. We can get takeout, or I'll cook, and we can watch a movie or something. Whatever you want. Okay?"

Blaine shook his head. And immediately began backpedaling, at Kurt's crestfallen expression. "No, I mean, I do. Want that," he clarified. "It's just—can we go somewhere first? It won't take long, I promise."

Kurt looked at him warily for a moment, before nodding. "All right, sure. Where do you want to go?"

* * *

><p>If Kurt was surprised by Blaine's request, he masked it well. He seemed to sense that Blaine wasn't ready to talk about their encounter with Sam, or the events that she had alluded to, and let the radio fill in the silence between them. Blaine was grateful. He sat cocooned in his jacket in the passenger seat, absently drinking from the bottle of water Kurt had bought him at the food court before leaving. The little yellow pill he'd snuck from the emergency stash in the bottom of his coat pocket was kicking in, and by the time Kurt pulled into the nearly empty parking lot, Blaine was feeling pleasantly numb.<p>

Kurt took Blaine's hand as they reached the gate, letting Blaine lead the way.

The night air was sharp, and the wide, winding paths Blaine pulled Kurt down were sparsely populated. The few groups of people they passed were pink cheeked with cold, heading back to their cars at a pace that was more determined than leisurely. Blaine tucked his free hand into his coat pocket for warmth, once again marveling at the heat that seemed to radiate from Kurt's skin where their fingers intertwined.

When the giant, enclosed clearing Blaine paused at proved to be empty, he opened the oversized door of the adjacent building, smiling as he saw what they had come to see. Or, rather, _who _they had come to see.

"Kurt Hummel," he said softly, "meet Priya, Mali, and Rafiki."

Kurt approached the fence slowly, gazing at the three sleeping lion cubs that were heaped together several feet away. "They're gorgeous," he told Blaine, watching the cubs as their bellies expanded with each breath, little black noses twitching in sleep. He tilted his head slightly. "Isn't Rafiki the baboon?" he wondered aloud.

Blaine nodded. "There's a chimp in the monkey house named Simba," he informed Kurt. "The veterinarians here have a healthy sense of humor."

They watched the babies sleep peacefully for a while, occasionally distracted by the lioness at the end of the enclosure as she worked over a cut of rope with her teeth.

Finally, Blaine broke the silence. "I came here sometimes, when I wasn't going to school," he told Kurt quietly, not looking away from the cubs. "I didn't want to be home, or around people, so I would try different places. I was here a lot during the summer, too, but it's better like this, when no one else is here."

He laughed, softly and without mirth. "I wanted to take them home with me," he confessed. "You can't be sad and damaged around tiny little lion cubs; it's like a universal constant."

Kurt nodded. "Well, now I know what to get you for Christmas," he quipped, making Blaine smile briefly.

One of the lions—Priya, Blaine knew from the markings on her flank—rolled over in her sleep, tail hitting the ground with a soft thump.

"I don't think I'm ready to forgive them," Blaine admitted quietly.

Kurt turned toward him, leaning on the top bar of the fence. "Nobody says you have to," he pointed out gently. "You don't ever have to, if it doesn't feel right."

He let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. "God, if the waste of space who broke my arm ever came up and apologized to me, I'd tell him to go fuck himself," he confessed. "You were much nicer about it than I would have been."

Blaine shook his head. "It's not the same thing, though," he disagreed. "The people who—"

Blaine cut himself off, then sighed. "If they had tried something like that, physically touching me, that would be one thing," he explained. "But they were my friends, before. They didn't actually hurt me."

Kurt looked at him sadly. "Blaine," he said softly, "just because they never punched you, doesn't mean they didn't hurt you."

Blaine took a slow, shaky breath.

"That was brave, what Sam did," Kurt continued, not breaking eye contact with Blaine. "But—and correct me if I'm wrong, please—it sounds like they weren't there for you when you needed them. And in a lot of ways, that's harder to deal with than being hit."

Blaine tore his gaze away from Kurt and leaned heavily on the fence, bending over the railing. "It's not all their fault, really," he told the dirt floor. "My old school isn't exactly gay-friendly. We were never explicitly taught that being gay was a giant moral sin, but in some ways, we might as well have been."

Even without looking up, Blaine could _feel _Kurt frowning. "Did your school teach you how to be a bad friend?" he asked pointedly.

When Blaine didn't answer, he sighed. "Look, Blaine," he tried again, sounding tired. "If you want to forgive them, that's your choice, and if that's what you need in order to get closure, then absolutely. Forgive them. Just…"

He paused, thinking. Blaine looked up to watch him.

Kurt shrugged helplessly. "Just, don't think that you have to forgive them just because they're apologizing," he finished. "Part of being sorry is accepting the consequences of your actions. If your friends really do want to make amends, then they'll have to do it on your timeline, and your terms. Right, little guy?"

Blaine followed Kurt's fond smile, looking over into the enclosure. One of the cubs had woken up, and was blinking at them sleepily.

"Which one is this?" Kurt wanted to know.

Blaine craned his neck to see better. "Rafiki," he answered, noticing the perfectly colored paws.

"Well then, Rafiki agrees with me," Kurt informed him, squatting down to get a closer look at the baby lion through the fence. "Don't you, handsome?"

Rafiki's ears twitched at the compliment. Blaine smiled.

"Yes, you're beautiful," Kurt continued, "and I mean that in a genuine, I-only-wear-fake-fur sort of way. I can see why Blaine likes you so much."

Rafiki let out a wide-mouthed yawn, little pink tongue stretching out.

"You're right," Kurt answered him, glancing up at Blaine, "he is special. Thank you for taking such good care of him while he was sad. I wish I had known him before things got so rough for him."

Blaine felt his grip on the fence tighten as he watched Kurt—the beautiful, exquisite boy he was beginning to fall for—crouch down in the dirt and talk to his lions as if they could understand him.

Kurt nodded seriously, still looking through the fence. "If it's all right with you, though, I'm going to take over on that front, as much as I can. Okay?" he asked. "Because you and your sisters are adorable, but I'm pretty sure the zookeepers would get upset if he tried to hug you, and I think he might need someone to remind him how awesome he is on a daily basis until he remembers it on his own."

He gazed up at Blaine. "Is that all right with you, Rafiki?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture that Blaine would have described as 'nervous', had it come from anyone but Kurt.

Eyes blurring with tears, Blaine nodded, reaching out to pull Kurt to his feet and into his arms.

* * *

><p>Dinner the next night was a stilted affair. His parents had wanted to hear all about his outing with his friends, and Blaine had furnished as few details as they would let him get away with, afraid of being caught in his lie. As his parents placidly discussed whether or not the carpet in the living room needed to be replaced, Blaine picked at his casserole. He felt oddly grateful that he'd be back in school the next morning—while he wasn't particularly passionate about his classes, or even about rehearsals, he was starting to crave the routine and respite from thought that the school day provided.<p>

"Blaine?" his mother asked, interrupting his musings. Blaine looked questioningly at her, and she smiled hesitantly. "I was just asking if you were going to go out on Friday before your appointment this week, or if that would be a good time to get our Christmas card picture done."

Blaine's comment about how they were several weeks behind on getting their annual picture taken died in his throat when he realized why his mother would have cancelled the original appointment. "Friday's fine," he mumbled into his plate, swirling his fork listlessly through his mashed potatoes.

Friday. His stupid appointment.

_Just tell them, _he thought.

"Mom?" he asked a minute later, looking up at his parents. If he had been in a better mood, he probably would have found it hilarious, the way the trivial conversation came to a sudden halt as both his mother and father turned to look at him, startled by his voluntary attempt at conversation.

"What is it, sweetheart?" his mom asked, once she had recovered from the minor shock.

Blaine bit his lip, then answered: "I don't want to see Dr. Weinstein anymore," he said.

The quiet following his simple statement was wrenching. His parents exchanged looks that Blaine couldn't interpret, before Blaine's mother looked back at him, taking a deep breath. "Sweetie, I know that therapy can be a tough thing to get through," she agreed, blinking sympathetically. "But your father and I, we really think it's for the best if you continue."

She forced a fluttering, fragile smile. "You've been doing so well lately," she acknowledged, "and you've said your headaches are gone, and we're so proud of the way you've settled in at Carmel. We just—"

She struggled to explain her point. "You're afraid that if I stop going to therapy, it'll all go back to the way things were right after the dance," Blaine concluded for her in a dull voice.

His mom looked like she wanted to disagree, but couldn't. Blaine put his fork down. "I don't want to see Dr. Weinstein anymore," he said flatly. "He doesn't listen when I talk, and his office is depressing. I'll see a different psychiatrist, if you want, but he's not helping me."

Another exchange of looks. Blaine waited.

Finally, his mother looked back to him. "All right," she allowed, "if that's how you feel. You do still need to see someone; your psychiatrist is the one who prescribes your medications, and you can't just stop taking them suddenly. But if you'd prefer to see someone else, I can call your school's guidance department tomorrow, and see if they can recommend someone who works with teenagers. Okay?"

Blaine nodded. "Okay," he agreed. "Thank you."

He waited for a minute. "I love you," he said, finally.

Blaine heard his mother's breath catch in her throat. He quickly excused himself from the table before he could see her cry because of him, yet again.

* * *

><p>Kurt immediately began laughing at Blaine when he walked into History on Tuesday.<p>

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, you just look so confused right now, and it's adorable," he apologized, trying—and failing—to completely stifle his mirth. "What happened?"

Blaine brandished the sheet music in his hand. "Sarabeth just ran up to me and made me promise to learn this by Friday morning," he recounted, leaving out the way that her fingers had dug desperately into his arms, eyes wide and panicked. "She said that Jesse told her that he might not be able to back her up for her Evaluation, and that she needed me to be ready, just in case."

"_Please, Blaine," _she had begged_, her dirty-blonde hair disheveled and bottom lip trembling. "It's a really easy part, and you'd only have to practice with me once, at lunch on Thursday."_

_Blaine, afraid that she was going to cry, agreed. "Just let me look at it, and make sure it's in my range," he said calmly, taking the papers from her. She let out a relieved sigh, wrapping herself around him and squeezing his ribs in a bone-crushing hug._

"_It is, I know it is," she promised. "When Jesse told me that he might not be here on Friday, he said that you might be a good fit for the part. Thank you so much, Blaine. I'll totally sing back up for you in March, if you want. I really owe you."_

_Blaine waved her off. He liked Sarabeth, he really did—she was in a couple of his classes, and she'd always been nice to him. "Just tell me what I need to do, I'll help you," he directed soothingly._

Kurt pulled the music from his hand and looked at it curiously. "Ambitious," he noted, flipping through the pages. "Your part is pretty easy, but I'm a little surprised that she's trying to cover Rihanna without the piano to keep her on track."

Blaine's confusion must have continued to show, because Kurt gestured for him to sit down. "For Evaluations, you're allowed to have either another person harmonizing, or the piano playing along with you," he explained. Blaine, who was exempt from Evaluations because he had auditioned so recently, listened attentively.

"Almost everyone chooses a duet partner, since it's more difficult," Kurt continued. "The grading is more lenient that way, and nobody tries to mess each other up, the way you would think, since Shelby can always tell who's at fault."

Despite Kurt's phrasing, Blaine never _would _have thought of that. "So why are you surprised?" he wondered out loud.

Kurt sighed delicately. "You know I'm not trying to be mean when I say this," he cautioned, waiting for Blaine's nod before he continued. "But generally, we can all kind of gauge each other's strengths and weaknesses—we sing together often enough. Sarabeth has a huge tendency to fall flat on vocal runs, and that's the sort of problem that becomes way more noticeable when you sing a cappella. If she had an instrumental accompaniment, she'd be able to notice within a note or two and self-correct, but…"

He trailed off. Blaine nodded, seeing his point.

After the bell rang, Blaine gathered up his things, walking slowly down the hall with Kurt towards Kurt's French class. "Why would Jesse back out at the last minute?" he asked, voicing the question that had been on his mind since he was first approached by Sarabeth. "He obviously gets how important these Evaluations seem to be. It doesn't seem like him."

Kurt's eyes darted all along the hallway. "You _cannot _tell anyone I told you this, even Jesse," he murmured quietly, making Blaine slide in closer to him in order to hear him better. "_I'm_ not even supposed to know this, but he warned me last week."

"I won't tell," Blaine promised breathlessly, wondering what it was that had Kurt looking so solemn.

Kurt nodded, swallowing. "Jesse might be transferring schools for a couple of months," he whispered, still glancing around to ensure that nobody was listening. "And if he's making contingency plans for Evaluations, which are mandatory, by the way, that means he's pressing for it to happen sooner rather than later."

Blaine was stunned. "But…he's our lead singer," he pointed out stupidly. "How is that even possible?"

Kurt shrugged. "I don't know all of the details," he admitted. "Just that Shelby's involved somehow, so she definitely knows and is okay with it."

Blaine shook his head. "What about all of his solos?" he asked. "Did she give him all of those songs, knowing that he'd be leaving?"

Kurt nodded. "They'll be split up and handed out," he confirmed. "Nobody else is good enough to handle them all, the way that he does."

"You are," Blaine said loyaly.

Kurt fluttered his eyelashes at Blaine, flushing slightly. "Flattery will get you everywhere," he said archly, before sighing heavily. "No. That's sweet of you to say, but unfortunately misguided," he insisted. "As crazy as Jesse drives me sometimes, he really is a star, and we all know it. I'm talented, but the best I can hope for is to split the lead with someone else next year. It's happened before; it's actually rare for one soloist to front Vocal Adrenaline, rather than two or three."

Blaine shook his head. "I think you could do it," he maintained stubbornly. "Nobody sings like you do."

Kurt nodded. "True," he allowed. "But while I have 'star potential and an impressive ability to dominate powerful thematic numbers', I 'lack the subtlety to thoroughly enliven and nuance the pieces whose emotional cores depend on restraint'," he quoted, a slight quality of hurt barely evident in his tone. "Or so sayeth Shelby."

Blaine's eyebrows shot up. "She _said _that to you?" he demanded incredulously. "That's horrible."

"She didn't actually say it," Kurt assured him. "It was one of the notes written on my last Evaluation form. She doesn't give them back to us, we just get verbal notes, so it's really my own fault that I saw it.

"She keeps them in an unlocked drawer," he elaborated, when Blaine looked at him. "Trust me, I'm not the only one who snuck into the office when nobody else was looking."

"Still, if she's going to write things that are that mean, she should lock the drawer," Blaine groused.

Kurt squeezed his hand. "She's not trying to be mean," he pointed out gently. "Sugarcoating the truth never helped anyone improve. Plus, knowing what she thinks are my weak points means that I can address them when I sing for her on Friday."

Blaine squeezed back. "Who are you singing with?" he asked.

Kurt smiled. "Sasha," he answered. "She threw a book at my head when I changed my piece this weekend, but she'll get over it. And I ducked, so."

Blaine nodded, trying to hide the disappointment he felt at Kurt's words. He hadn't expected Kurt to ask him to sing with him, since he'd assumed that Kurt had been working on his song for ages. But if he had picked out a new song that weekend…

He shook himself. He was being stupid—Sasha was a girl, and Kurt probably needed a girl to harmonize with. He was reading too much into the situation, making problems where they didn't exist.

"When do you sing?" he asked, before Kurt could notice that anything was wrong with him.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Fifth period on Friday," he lamented. "I was hoping to be scheduled during Chemistry, since Evaluations will get you out of any class, no questions asked, but sadly it didn't work out."

They had long since reached Kurt's classroom, and the bell was about to ring. Leaning in, Blaine kissed Kurt on the cheek, the first time he had dared to do so at school. "Bye," he offered shyly, feeling his own cheeks heat up slightly.

Kurt's eyes were shining. "See you after school," he replied, smiling.

* * *

><p>Kurt's suspicions had been correct: at the end of rehearsal on Thursday, Shelby broke the news that Jesse St. James would be leaving Carmel temporarily.<p>

"He _will _be returning next semester," she announced sternly, raising her voice in order to be heard over the outbreak of whispers. "In the meantime, his solos will be divided among the rest of the choir, to be returned to him upon his re-enrollment. I'm still in the process of assigning parts, but those who receive them will be notified before rehearsal on Monday."

The whispering grew even louder at that. Blaine looked around at all of the shocked faces—it seemed that a lead singer leaving Carmel for any reason other than death or dismemberment was an unprecedented event.

He looked over at Jesse, who was standing in front of everyone with Shelby. He was smiling mysteriously, seemingly untouched by all the chaos that his departure was causing.

His eyes met Blaine's from across the room, and he winked. Startled, Blaine tried to smile back, just as Shelby began speaking again.

"It goes without saying that this information is to be kept secret—you are not to discuss it with reporters, extended family, on the phone, on your personal blogs, etc. If someone asks you, you have no comment. If someone threatens your first born or offers you money in exchange for the inside scoop, you have no comment. Is everyone clear on that?"

Blaine nodded warily as everyone voiced their agreement. The pronouncement seemed a little over the top to him, but then, so did a lot of things about Vocal Adrenaline.

He shuddered. He wasn't sure he wanted to meet anyone who would put a show choir over the welfare of their first born child, in any case.

* * *

><p>Friday came, and with it came Evaluations. Many of the teachers showed movies or gave busy work during classes that day, mindful of the fact that some of the schools' most stressed students were under even more pressure than usual, showing up in the auditorium in twenty minute increments with palpable nerves and bloodshot eyes.<p>

Blaine dutifully waited for Sarabeth backstage at the start of third period, and did his best to sing exactly the way she had coached him the day before. Like Kurt had predicted, the vocal runs were a problem—while Shelby did praise her showmanship, she also cracked down on what she called Sarabeth's "wandering pitch", and assigned her weekly tutorials with one of the music department's vocal coaches. Sarabeth took it well, agreeing with Shelby's pronouncement with a resigned tone before heading back to class.

By the time fourth period rolled around, Kurt was more wrecked than Blaine had ever seen him. Despite his assertions that he was "fine, Blaine, really" and that the piece he'd be singing was "a lot easier than the one I did in June", his skin was clammy with sweat, and his hair looked unusually disheveled. His eyes darted nervously around the room as Blaine stroked his hand, trying—unsuccessfully—to distract him from his sudden onset of performance anxiety.

Blaine suspected that when the time came for Kurt's Summer Academy auditions, he was going to be sharing his little orange cylinders.

Kurt's nerves were beginning to spread to Blaine, so much so that it was almost a relief to walk him to the auditorium after History and give him a hug for good luck. Kurt collapsed into Blaine's embrace like a condemned man, hanging on as if it were the last one he was ever going to get—a dramatic reaction that would normally have made Blaine smile fondly, but instead made him even more anxious on Kurt's behalf.

"You'll be great," he promised, looking Kurt in the eye. "I'll be here when you're done, okay?"

Kurt perked up at that. "I forgot you have lunch now," he admitted. "Wait for me?"

Blaine smiled warmly. "I just said I would, didn't I?" he reminded Kurt. "The bell is about to ring; go in there and be amazing."

The bell did ring at just that moment, and Kurt's eyes widened comically as he squeezed Blaine's arm one last time and scampered into the auditorium. Blaine watched the door close behind him, before sitting down across the hall to wait.

Two minutes later he was back on his feet, pressed up against the auditorium double doors and spying shamelessly through the narrow crack in between them. Which was an entirely reasonable thing to do—Kurt hadn't explicitly asked him _not_ to listen (and had actually encouraged him to stay), and how the audition went would be hugely indicative of how Kurt was feeling for the rest of the weekend.

Really, it was his responsibility as a good boyfriend to listen in.

The Kurt that was onstage could not have been more different than the Kurt that Blaine just had spent the better part of an hour trying to pacify. He and Sasha were seated on a pair of stools near the front of the stage, chatting with Shelby, who was sitting in the third row of the auditorium. His legs were crossed, hands clasped neatly in his lap, and he looked utterly at ease as he answered question after question from Shelby. At one point, he even turned to Sasha and said something that made her crack up, something that Blaine would never have been able to pull off in his position.

Finally, the conversation ended, and Blaine watched closely as Danny gave Kurt and Sasha their opening pitches. Shelby nodded, and Kurt closed his eyes, remaining seated.

Blaine held his breath.

Kurt began to sing. _"I just want to be ok, be ok, be ok, I just want to be ok today..."_

The lyrics were dark, but sound was lighter and peppier than Blaine had ever heard Kurt sing before. A stark contrast to the slow melodies and big Broadway numbers he was used to hearing Kurt sing pieces from in the car or between classes, the song Kurt had chosen was casual and subtle, while still showcasing Kurt's obvious talent.

It was exactly the type of song that, according to Shelby, Kurt shouldn't be able to do. And Kurt was _nailing _it.

"_Open me up and you will see, I'm a gallery of broken hearts…" _Sasha began harmonizing at the first chorus, voice blending smoothly with Kurt's while still allowing him to shine predominantly. Blaine could see why he'd asked her to help him; they sounded great together.

"He's good, isn't he?"

Startled, Blaine pulled back from the door. Jesse was leaning on the wall a few feet away. He tilted his head toward the auditorium. "Kurt," he clarified, "he's one of the best we have, wouldn't you say so?"

Blaine nodded. "He's doing great," he agreed.

Jesse smiled. "I knew he would," he confided. "I know he was a little hesitant about changing songs so close to Evaluations, but it sounds like it's working out. I'm glad I nudged him into it."

Blaine blinked, realizing suddenly that something was off. "Wait, weren't you starting at your new school today?" he asked curiously. "I thought that was why you couldn't sing with Sarabeth."

Jesse nodded. "Already did," he answered, "I spent the morning completing the transfer paperwork, and I'll be back in time for the last class or two. But I didn't want to miss Kurt singing; it'll probably be the last time I get to hear it for a while."

He looked closely at Blaine. "May I say something personal?" he asked politely, tilting his head slightly the way that Kurt sometimes did.

Slightly wary, Blaine nodded, earning another smile from Jesse.

"I just wanted you to know that I don't harbor any resentment against you at all," he said seriously, looking Blaine in the eye. "I don't know how much Kurt's told you about me, and I didn't want you to get the wrong idea."

Blaine frowned, thoroughly confused by Jesse's seemingly random statement. "The wrong idea about what, exactly?" he asked carefully, unsure where the conversation was going.

Jesse leaned back against the wall. "About how I feel about your relationship," he said matter-of-factly. "I haven't always been terribly supportive of Kurt dating other people, I'll admit, but I like you. I think you'll be good for him."

Blaine's confusion had yet to abate. "Why wouldn't you be…" he started, before trailing off as he put the pieces together.

At the same time as Jesse, evidently, whose smile had disappeared. "He never mentioned that we were together last year, did he," he asked flatly, mouth twisted in a hollow-looking smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Blaine shook his head wordlessly.

Jesse nodded. "Well, that's in the past now," he told Blaine. "And like I said, I don't bear any ill will toward you."

They listened quietly through the door as Kurt sang the final line of his song, his beautifully clear voice ringing throughout the auditorium.

"Look after him for me, will you?" Jesse entreated, not looking away from the sliver of space between the doors. "Make sure he eats—he 'forgets' sometimes."

Without waiting for an answer, he walked away, leaving Blaine standing alone in the hall.

* * *

><p><em>Next up: The aftermath of Jesse's confession and departure.<em>


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11A&B/? The WHOLE CHAPTER this time, cliffhanger-free! If you've already read part A and don't want to slog through it again, scroll about halfway down, to the section that begins "Kurt had figured…"

Also, announcements!:

1. Do you have a livejournal? So do I! Come be my friend at SeeAlexWrite dot livejournal dot com.

2. Do you have a tumblr? I do, and I'm taking prompts for a writing project until **Oct 31st, 12:00pm EST.** You don't need a tumblr to participate, so stop over at yourfairygodfather dot tumblr dot com.

Enough self-promotion? I hope so. As always, you're excellent and I don't own anything. Onto the words!

* * *

><p>It took Kurt less than five minutes to notice that something was wrong. That Blaine, while not normally a paragon of exuberance on the best of days, was nevertheless being <em>too <em>quiet.

His Evaluation had gone spectacularly. Even mid-song, Kurt had _known_ that switching pieces had been the right decision—besides just _feeling _right, Shelby's eyebrow had arched and her lips had curved, and the resulting Surprised But Pleased expression told Kurt everything he needed to know—even before she ended her critique of his performance by congratulating him on "taking a flying leap and landing on your feet."

"Make an appointment with me for next week," she had told him. "I think it's time we started discussing your goals and prospects for the year."

Screw leaping. In that moment, Kurt could have _flown _off the stage.

He managed to maintain his composure while thanking Shelby for her time and Sasha for her help, but couldn't stop the heady, bubbly feeling from building up in his chest as he made his way up the aisle toward the exit. He held the door open for James—Sasha's Evaluation was next on the schedule, and her boyfriend was a decent baritone—before practically dancing out the door and into the hallway.

And there was Blaine, slumped up against the wall across from the auditorium. He straightened up and took a step toward Kurt.

Kurt, who couldn't hold back his excitement any longer. Wordlessly closing the distance between them, he threw himself into Blaine's arms, wrapping his legs around Blaine's waist and burying his face in his dark hair.

Blaine's hands flew up to steady him. "Kurt, what—" he managed to get out, before Kurt was babbling incoherently in his ear, trying to tell him everything that had happened in the auditorium all at once. His bag was spilling onto the floor and Blaine's grip on his back was painfully tight and his speech was probably completely incomprehensible—even wound up, he could tell that he was talking too fast and too high-pitched and that his tendency to play fast and loose with word order when he was excited was definitely becoming a factor but he didn't _care, _he was just happy and relieved and excited, and he could finally stop freaking out and just _breathe, _and—

His vision started to swim a little as he slid back to his feet, Blaine keeping a firm grip on his arms and looking at him with concern. "Kurt, slow down," he instructed. "You're hyperventilating."

-_and_ he was hyperventilating. Still smiling like a lunatic, Kurt took several slow, calming breaths, letting Blaine hold him in place until the lightheaded-bordering-on-unpleasant sensation faded entirely.

"Sorry, sorry," he breathed, trying to erase the stricken expression on Blaine's face. He reached up and grasped Blaine's biceps, mirroring the hold that Blaine had on him. His fingers slipped a little—they were shakier than Kurt had thought—and he redoubled his efforts. Before he could reassure Blaine that he was fine, though, that he just needed to ride the post-success euphoria out for a few more moments and then he'd be back to normal, Kurt realized something that made him pause:

He wasn't the one trembling. Blaine was.

Kurt examined Blaine carefully, trying to suppress the alarm that was growing too fast; his nerves still keyed up from the last few hours. There were a lot of little things that were making him uneasy: Blaine's normally healthy skin tone was more washed out than usual; his breathing, while nowhere near as disrupted as Kurt's, was still slightly off, as though he were forcing himself to breathe normally. The too-bright sheen in his eyes; the too-tight grip on Kurt's arms; the shaking in his limbs that had yet to abate.

Most telling, though, was the _look _on Blaine's face—a pained, craving expression that Kurt didn't understand.

"You're not okay right now," Kurt stated gently, rather than ask the obvious. "What happened? Something happened, are you—what do you need me to do?"

Blaine's fingers loosened on Kurt's arms.

"Nothing," Blaine replied, the unsteady smile he gave Kurt not reaching his eyes, "it's fine. I'm fine."

Kurt looked at him. Blaine's forced smile, more than anything, confirmed for him that something was wrong. He had seen that smile before, during class, or practice, or when Blaine accidently mentioned something from his old school and realized it a second too late.

But Blaine had never used it on him before.

"No," Kurt said slowly, shaking his head even as his stomach sank horribly. "No, you're not."

Blaine's eyes were worryingly unreadable. Kurt tried again: "Something happened when I was in there, and for some reason you don't want to tell me." He looked at Blaine carefully. "Blaine, you know that…"

He trailed off, blood draining out of his face as a thought occurred to him. "Nothing happened just now, did it?" he asked, dreading the answer. "Something's been wrong all day, and I was so anxious about messing up in front of Shelby that I'm just noticing now, aren't I?"

When Blaine didn't immediately deny it, Kurt's stomach lurched unpleasantly. Oh God, he was the worst boyfriend ever. And not in a 'bought tickets for the wrong movie' or 'was five minutes late for dinner because there was a line at the florist' type of way, either—he was _actually _a terrible boyfriend, in the Self-Centered, Emotionally Neglectful sense.

His stomach reeled again. _Shit. _And he was probably going to cap off the conversation by hurling on Blaine's shoes, if he wasn't careful.

Sinking into the floor really should have been an option.

Blaine's mouth was open, but he seemed to be having trouble forming words. "Blaine," Kurt entreated, before Blaine could figure out how to yell at him, "I'm sorry. I'm_ really_ sorry. I get unbelievably self-absorbed right before auditions and exams, anything where I'm explicitly being judged—they make me horrendously insecure, and I become this person that I don't like, and I'm working on it, I—"

"Kurt," Blaine cut him off softly. "You weren't. It's fine."

Kurt shook his head. "It's not fine," he disagreed, "not if _you're _not fine, and it's taken me this long to notice. Blaine, I'm so, so sorry. I—"

"Kurt," Blaine tried again, more insistently. "Just…stop for a second, okay?"

Kurt stopped.

Blaine took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "I'm not—you didn't…I was fine before," he stumbled, looking down at the floor in between them. "It's not anything like that."

Kurt felt slightly better. But only slightly. "It is something, though," he pressed gently.

Blaine didn't disagree.

Kurt bit his lip. "Blaine, please," he asked, "if something's wrong, don't shut me out, okay? Whatever it is, I can help you, or try to help you. You've got me."

Blaine let out another shaky breath. "Do I?" he asked, sounding so damn _broken _and unsure that Kurt wanted to cry. Wanted to reach out and stroke Blaine's cheek; to wrap him up in a hug and soothe away any insecurity.

But Blaine needed to talk. Painfully, Kurt suppressed the urge.

"I need to ask you something," Blaine continued, before Kurt could say anything. "And I need you to be honest with me, please?"

Kurt nodded, puzzled. "Sure," he agreed, "anything."

Blaine nodded back. "Okay," he breathed. "I need to know about Jesse.

"Not about him. How you _feel _about him," he clarified, at Kurt's mystified look.

Kurt, still reeling a bit from the Terrible Boyfriend realization (and consequent dismissal), didn't know what to make of the question. "We're friends," he replied, a little confused and wondering where exactly Blaine's train of thought was heading. "I probably want to push him in front of a bus more often than anyone I know, but still. We're friends."

Blaine looked…oddly disappointed with that answer. "You weren't always just friends, though," he clarified.

He wasn't asking Kurt; he was telling him.

_Fuck._

"No," Kurt answered carefully, "we weren't."

It was clear in hindsight that Blaine had been hoping, at least in part, that Kurt would deny it. When that didn't happen, his face fell, making him look so much like a puppy that had been unexpectedly kicked that Kurt wanted to take it back, a thousand times over.

"Please," Kurt asked, trying to ignore the voice in his brain that was cursing like a particularly filthy-mouthed rapper and threatening to kill whomever it was that told Blaine about him and Jesse. With a rusty spoon. "Blaine—"

"You said," Blaine interrupted him, sounding as distressed as he looked. "I asked you before, if you two had ever—"

Kurt _couldn't_ let him finish that sentence. "We were talking about sex," he reminded Blaine, who shuddered at the word—or maybe the idea of it as it applied to Kurt and Jesse. "I thought that's what you were asking me. And we didn't, okay?"

Blaine shook his head, refusing to meet Kurt's eyes.

Kurt pulled him in, wrapping an arm around his waist. "Blaine, listen to me, all right?" he pleaded, lifting his other hand to Blaine's cheek, gently encouraging him to look back up. Blaine allowed Kurt to move him, but kept his eyes downcast.

"Jesse and I were together last year for a couple of months—two, two and a half, at most," Kurt explained, ducking his head slightly, trying to get Blaine to really look at him. "It wasn't working out, and we _both_ decided that it would be better for us to just be friends who occasionally wanted to rip each other's eyes out, and that's it. That's all we were, and _nothing has happened_ since, all right? I promise."

Blaine exhaled sharply, leaning into Kurt's touch. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, blinking rapidly, but finally looking up and meeting Kurt's gaze.

Kurt shrugged helplessly. "I told you that I've dated other people," he said, trying to articulate the reasons why he kept it from Blaine that didn't include _Because I didn't want him to hold it over you, because he would if you looked at him like you _knew_, but he's not cruel enough to taunt you with it if I kept you safe_. "I didn't think you wanted to know specifics, and I didn't think it mattered—we've been over for more than a year, and he's not even the last person that I dated."

It was the wrong thing to say. Kurt _knew_ it was the wrong thing to say even as it was leaving his mouth, even before he saw the fresh wave of pain it caused Blaine. "Blaine, please," Kurt begged again, for what felt like the hundredth time—when did the conversation get so out of control?

"I like _you_, okay?" he stressed. "I want to be _your_ boyfriend, not anyone else's. I know that, Jesse knows that, and I need you to know that too, because right now? You're scaring me a little."

Blaine's face didn't change completely, but it shifted enough that Kurt could definitely read the surprise and concern in his expression.

"I'm not mad," he assured Kurt, "I'm not. I'm just…"

He exhaled sharply, looking away again. "I need to process all of this," he said finally.

Kurt shook his head. He hadn't been worried that Blaine was mad; he was worried that Blaine was hurt, or scared, or upset, or all three. And that Kurt, in his purposeful omission, had destroyed all of the progress that he'd made in earning Blaine's trust.

The bell rang before he could tell Blaine any of that.

Kurt had never been big on the destruction of public property. Still, in that moment, he would have gladly torn the PA system out of the ceiling with his bare hands.

_My kingdom for a stepladder._

As other students began streaming into the hall, Blaine looked away from Kurt. When he turned back a moment later, his eyes were slightly darker, expression painfully neutral.

"I have to go home right after school," he told Kurt, taking a small step backward out of Kurt's hold. Kurt tried not to feel hurt by that, reminding himself that Blaine still wasn't entirely comfortable with PDA in front of people they knew; that he probably would have done the same thing no matter what they had been talking about.

It only helped a little bit.

Blaine wasn't done. "Can we talk about this later? After I have some time to think about everything?" he asked, his voice losing some of its impartial veneer.

Without it, he sounded…just, tired. Kurt felt his eyes prickling. He swiped at them quickly, before anyone but Blaine could see. "Okay," he croaked, trying to follow Blaine's lead. "If that's what you want. Call me whenever you're ready, okay?"

For a moment, Blaine watched him softly, looking at Kurt like he wanted to say something.

The moment passed. Instead, he nodded at Kurt, smiling sadly at him before walking away.

Kurt stood there, rooted to the spot, long after the bell rang.

* * *

><p>Kurt skipped his last few classes, grateful for the timing of Evaluations—given the semi-chaotic state of Carmel on those three days per year, it was unlikely that he would be missed. And even if he was, his dad wouldn't be home until six, leaving him plenty of time to intercept and erase the phone message from the attendance office inquiring into his whereabouts.<p>

He kept his mind on the road, breathing evenly and forcing himself to concentrate—a habit purposefully instilled in him by Burt over years of driving lessons. Only when he pulled into the parking lot at the grocery store, killing the ignition and stepping out of the car, did Kurt allow his thoughts to spiral.

He yanked a cart out of the haphazard formation and pushed it through the automatic doors, replaying bits and pieces of his conversation with Blaine in his head. He was trying to look at the whole encounter from a neutral perspective, but it was difficult, when the original experience was so colored by the idea of _Blaine_ in his mind: Standing in front of Blaine, who was so fragile and expressive, it had been hard for Kurt to work out what he himself thought of the situation. Or, at least, what he thought_ independent_ of how it related to Blaine.

_But maybe that's part of the problem_, he realized, scanning the nutrition information on the side of a cereal box before wrinkling his nose and putting it back. He couldn't separate Blaine from the situation because the situation was inherently related to Blaine—that Kurt had been with Jesse before and had kept it from _Blaine_; that someone had told _Blaine_ about their history; that Blaine wasn't reacting particularly well to finding out; that Kurt was afraid that Blaine was going to realize that Kurt was altogether too much for him and break up with him.

Something in his chest tightened.

He threw a container of steel-cut oats into the cart and veered quickly out of the aisle, heading for the produce section.

The idea of Blaine breaking up with him horrified Kurt to a depth that he didn't understand: he had only known Blaine for a little over a month, and had been dating him for less than that. Even if he _had_ had feelings for Blaine from that first day, their relationship—in all its intensity—was still so new. The idea of losing Blaine over what had happened in the hall simply _shouldn't be able_ to terrify Kurt to his core, the way it was doing.

Kurt's hand paused over the baby spinach. _Should it?_

He cast his mind back, trying to remember exactly how he had felt about the few other boyfriends he had had, a few weeks into their fledgling relationships. (And being a teenage boy at a school that encouraged hard work and athletics, there were a number of long-term crushes he could take into consideration as well.) He compared all of the feelings that he could remember having for other boys to what he was feeling for Blaine; all the terrible, wonderful highs and lows of teenage…well, infatuation—Kurt knew himself well enough to know that he had never really been in love. Had never seriously considered himself to be in love, if he was being honest with himself.

Kurt swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.

He was blessed and cursed with an exquisite memory for detail, and it was obvious—even taking into consideration that the past was all in hindsight and everything he felt for Blaine was happening _right now_—that whatever he was feeling, it was a lot deeper than what he would have predicted.

Maybe it was because Kurt was getting older, or because Blaine's fragility added a new dimension to their interactions—forcing Kurt to think before he acted; to avoid being careless. Maybe it was simply because the boy in question was _Blaine._

Whatever it was, it was terrifying. And it made Kurt feel smaller and more vulnerable than he could ever remember feeling.

Kurt wheeled his mostly-empty cart to the cash registers. He purposely avoided a number of the open lanes, settling instead for Dottie, the oldest cashier at the grocery store—possibly the oldest cashier anywhere, though he'd never say it to her face. Kurt didn't know if Dottie's cataracts prevented her from realizing that Kurt was only in high school and always paid with his Dad's credit card, or if she was simply a holdout from the days when kids left school after they learned to read in order to help support the family. Either way, it made his life easier—he paid with a cheerful, fake smile that she probably couldn't see.

He walked out of the store with his two cloth grocery bags in his arms, wishing as he did every week that he lived anywhere but his small, Midwest cow-town. Somewhere like New York or L.A., where he could walk into any shop and buy seitan and lentils, instead of having to bulk-order organic products off of Amazon whenever he had a shipping coupon.

He shoved the groceries in the trunk of his car, slamming the door a little harder than was absolutely necessary.

Only three more years.

Starting the car, he forced thoughts of what Blaine would be doing in three years firmly out of his mind, and drove home.

* * *

><p>Dinner that evening started out awkwardly.<p>

Kurt was sure that his dad didn't know about him skipping school—besides the obvious lack of yelling, the only school-related message on the answering machine had been from Coach Walker, who merely wished him well on his Evaluation and asked him to stop by her office on Monday to look at the gymnastics team's competition schedule. Burt was definitely aware, however, that something was wrong with him: if the raked leaves, waxed floors, and repaired storm window in the living room hadn't tipped him off, then walking in on Kurt doctoring his burned hand over the kitchen sink, while the risotto boiled on, had certainly done the trick.

When Kurt had expressed in no uncertain terms that he was "_fine, _Dad"_, _he had given Kurt a skeptical look and an ice pack and ordered him out of the kitchen. Burt had made dinner while Kurt was in the shower, dumping the ruined risotto and cutting Kurt's turkey sandwich into quarters.

When Kurt protested that he wasn't a five year old, Burt simply glanced at Kurt's left hand, bandaged and laying uselessly on the table, and asked how he planned to hold a full-sized sandwich. Kurt grudgingly conceded the point, picking at his dinner one-handed.

Burt, looking equally worn out, drank his beer in silence.

"Dad?" Kurt asked after a while, more to break the unnerving quiet than out of any genuine desire for conversation. "Is there anything you want to do on Monday? We could go somewhere, or I could make you something special for dinner."

Burt's hands stilled in mid-air. "You have school on Monday, Buddy," he reminded Kurt, putting his sandwich down, "not to mention rehearsal."

Kurt frowned slightly. "I can skip rehearsal, Dad," he pointed out, deciding it might not be prudent to bring up the possibility of skipping school as well.

It didn't matter, in any case; his dad was shaking his head. "No," Burt ordered, "you go, don't skip anything. I'm just going to go visit your mom after work; you don't have to do anything special."

His voice, while quiet, held a note of finality to it that Kurt didn't challenge.

* * *

><p>Not until dessert, anyway.<p>

Kurt watched, slumped on the table with his head on his arms, as his dad struggled with the overly-frozen frozen yogurt. He opened his mouth to tell Burt that it was fine, that he was full anyway.

"Dad? When did you know that Mom was special?" he found himself asking instead.

Burt's mouth twitched. "Day I met her," he answered, glancing back at Kurt before scraping at the frozen yogurt again. "It got clearer over time, obviously, but your mom was something else. You know I'm not the smartest guy, but I would have been a real idiot _not _to notice how special she was, right from the start."

Kurt nodded, his still-damp hair brushing over his arm. "What did Grandpa say?" he wanted to know, thinking about Burt's ornery father, who had passed away when Kurt was eleven.

His dad snorted. "He said that I was just a kid, that I didn't even know what I wanted for breakfast, let alone who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with."

He shrugged, handing Kurt his bowl and spoon before sitting back down. "He came around eventually, though," he explained, "especially after spending some time with your mom. He didn't have anything against her, he was just worried that we were too young to be making such big decisions—I was only 21 when we met, and your mom was a year younger."

"That's not so young," Kurt pointed out, toying with his spoon without bothering to sit up.

Burt laughed. "It is when you're a parent," he told Kurt.

He ruffled Kurt's hair. Kurt let him.

"I'll iron your suit tonight," Kurt promised, "and get you some flowers to bring her from both of us."

For a moment, he wasn't sure if his dad was going to answer him. After a minute though, Burt shook his head. "God, kid. You remind me so much of her," he said, looking at the window behind Kurt. "She'd be proud of you."

Kurt felt his eyes welling up with tears, yet again. He quickly looked down at the floor, blinking them back rapidly before his dad could see them.

Burt didn't notice. "Don't burn your other hand, though, all right?" he requested. "If the iron's too much to handle, just leave it."

Kurt didn't look up. "I can handle a lot," he said quietly.

He slept badly that night, images of Blaine and his mother swirling through his dreams.

* * *

><p>Kurt had figured that if Blaine was going to call him over the weekend—a big if—he'd probably call on Sunday afternoon or evening. So when his phone rang at 12:30 on Saturday during his weekly pickup at the sub shop, he was more than a little unprepared to see Blaine's name on the caller ID.<p>

He nearly dropped the phone in his haste to answer it. "Hi," he said breathlessly, accepting his change and bag of six sandwiches with his other hand and hurrying out of the shop.

There was a slight pause on the other end. "Hi," Blaine answered after a few seconds, sounding equally unsure. "Sorry," he offered, "I thought you were at work, so I'd psyched myself up to leave a message."

Kurt opened the door of the Navigator, tossing the subs on the passenger seat. "I'm heading back in a few minutes; I'm just picking up lunch for everyone," he explained.

He paused, leaning back against the car and cradling his ribcage with his free hand. "How are you?" he asked, really wanting to know the answer.

He could practically _feel_ Blaine shrug over the phone. "All right," Blaine answered politely. "You?"

"Okay," Kurt lied. "A world of grease under my fingernails, but nothing half an hour and a nail brush won't fix."

He took a deep breath, not completely sure what he wanted to say. "Blaine, I—"

"Can we get coffee?" Blaine interrupted. "I-I mean," he stammered, "later. When you're done with work. Can we just…go somewhere to talk? I don't think—I want us to talk, but I don't want to do it over the phone. Is that okay?"

_That_, Kurt thought, _depends entirely on what it is you want to say. _"I'm done with work at 4:30," he offered, "there was a big transmission job Dad wanted done this morning, so I started early. I'll need to shower and get changed, but I could meet you somewhere at six?"

"Okay," Blaine agreed. "Is there—do you want to go anywhere in particular?"

Kurt shook his head, forgetting for a second that Blaine couldn't see him. "Why don't you pick?" he suggested, gripping the still-open door of the car. "What—"

He stopped himself from saying _whatever you want_. "I'll meet you wherever," he said instead.

If Blaine noticed his hesitation, he didn't say anything about it. "The bookstore at the mall?" he asked Kurt. "We could meet in the café"

"All right," Kurt answered, his stomach beginning to knot itself up with nerves. "I'll see you there."

After they hung up, Kurt slipped his phone back into his pocket. Closing his eyes and sighing, he banged his head softly on the side of the car a few times.

He _really _hoped that Blaine wasn't planning on breaking up with him that night. Besides the obvious reasons, he'd never be able to set foot in the bookstore again, and that would just be compounding tragedies.

Carefully fixing his hair where he'd hit his head, Kurt climbed back into the Navigator and started the car.

* * *

><p>The rest of Kurt's shift at the tire shop had been torture. He'd had plenty to do, but none of it was complicated enough to distract him from thinking about Blaine; what Blaine was thinking, what Blaine wanted to talk about, etc. When 4:30 finally rolled around, Kurt was such a nervous wreck that it was all he could do just to drive home and throw himself in the shower.<p>

Even then, he wasn't too successful—after three rounds of accidently shampooing his hair instead of using the conditioner, he decided to give up and get out before he hurt himself. Similarly, he decided that using the blow-dryer to style his hair was probably not the best idea, given his temperament.

The parking at the mall, never ideal on a Saturday, was even worse than usual. Kurt had to drive up and down the lanes several times before finding a reasonably decent spot, and it was a few minutes after the time he'd agreed to meet Blaine when he finally made it to the bookstore, rushing through the doors and making a beeline for the café.

And because the universe hated him, Blaine was already there, looking more beautiful than ever. He didn't look up when Kurt came in, entranced by the steam rising from the ceramic mug in his hands.

His eyelashes fluttered, and Kurt had never wanted to kiss anyone so badly.

Instead, breathless and far more apprehensive than he wanted to admit, Kurt made his way over to the table. "Hi," he offered gently, clutching his bag tightly and easing himself into the chair opposite Blaine.

Blaine smiled back tentatively. "Hi," he replied. He pushed a second mug across the table. "It's cinnamon," he explained. "I wasn't sure what your favorite was, but I remembered you got one of these at the music store."

Kurt softened. "Thank you," he said softly, gratefully. "You didn't have to do that."

Blaine shrugged. Kurt took a sip of his drink, not tasting it. "You got your hair cut," he observed politely.

Blaine blushed, ducking his head shyly and pulling at one of the curls, which were about an inch shorter than Kurt remembered. "Holiday card picture," he shared. "It was getting a little shaggy, so…"

He trailed off, looking unsurely at Kurt.

Kurt smiled. "I like it," he reassured Blaine, "it suits you." And it did. Kurt could tell without touching it that whomever had styled it had used some sort of taming product, smoothing Blaine's now-glossy curls without flattening them or making them greasy. It was, in all honesty, exactly the way Kurt would have done Blaine's hair, given the chance.

The thought that now he might never get the chance hit him suddenly, making his heart sink.

Blaine's eyes had dropped to the table. "I'm sorry," he apologized, "I know I called you but…" He sighed. "I'm having trouble thinking of how I want to say this," he admitted.

Kurt's mouth was dry, but taking another sip of coffee would have been impossible.

"Can I just…" he started.

Blaine looked at him.

Kurt shook his head, trying to swallow and failing.

"If you're going to break up with me, can you just do it now?" he asked, in a small voice that didn't sound like his own.

Blaine looked shocked. "You think I called you here to break up with you?" he asked, leaning forward in his chair.

Kurt shrugged weakly. "Yes. No. I don't know," he answered, breath hitching slightly. "Did you?"

Blaine gripped his coffee mug. "Are you going to leave me for Jesse?" he countered evenly.

Kurt shook his head vehemently. "No, of course not," he promised.

Blaine nodded. "Then no, I'm not breaking up with you either," he said simply.

Kurt's mug clattered to the table, coffee sloshing over the rim and running down the sides.

"Hey," Blaine said soothingly, looking at Kurt with concern. "Kurt, I—please don't cry. I'm sorry." He quickly leaned over the table and grabbed Kurt's hand with both of his own, rubbing the pad of his thumb gently over Kurt's knuckles. "I'm sorry," he repeated, "I didn't know you thought that. I wouldn't have let you think that if I'd known, I promise."

Blaine's sleeve was dragging though Kurt's spilled mocha. He didn't seem to notice.

Kurt rubbed his free hand over his face, belatedly realizing that there were tears streaming down his cheeks. "God, I'm such a mess today, I'm sorry," he apologized.

Grabbing a napkin from the table, he dabbed at his eyes. "I wasn't sure if you were going to break up with me or not, but I thought you might," he admitted. "And I wouldn't blame you, really. I haven't been a very good boyfriend to you, I don't think."

Blaine's eyebrows shot up. "Kurt, are you kidding me right now?" he asked, incredulous. "You've been a great boyfriend," he insisted, "you really have."

Kurt let out a small laugh. "Blaine," he sniffed, "I mean absolutely no disrespect when I say this. But if you actually thought I was going to cheat on you, or dump you in order to get back together with an ex, then clearly I haven't been."

He shook his head, wet eyelashes matting together. "I don't think I've been clear about this, so I'm just going to say it now, okay?" he asked. When Blaine nodded, looking slightly apprehensive, Kurt took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"I act like I know what I'm doing," he began, "and most of the time, I do. But when it comes to us? I'm scared. I'm scared because I don't know what you've been through, just that it was bad. And I know you're getting better—I can see it, I really can—but there are still times that you're just so _fragile_, and even though I'd never, ever hurt you on purpose, I'm _terrified_ that I'm going to do it by accident—just say or do the wrong thing that breaks you. And I don't ever want to be the one who does that to you."

Kurt could feel the tears streaming down his face again, but he didn't wipe them away. "I'm scared because you make me feel things," he continued, looking directly at Blaine, who was fighting tears himself. "And I'm not used to that. I love my dad, I love my friends; it's not like I'm heartless. But I just look at you and think that, _God, it would be so easy to fall in love with him_, and it's all just so _much_.

"And when you walked away yesterday, I honestly thought that that might be you leaving," he said, voice hoarse. "And it was like the floor dropped out from underneath me. Because you're special, Blaine. You're wonderful, and I think about you all the time, and I never understood how it worked, before. How any one person could just walk into your life, and—without even doing anything in particular—change it so thoroughly for the better that you couldn't imagine going back to the way things were before. And then you were there, and it was like, _'Oh. This is how it happens.'_"

Kurt paused. "I'm probably coming on far too strong and creeping you out right now," he acknowledged. "But I needed to say it. If you feel like you need a restraining order now, I'd understand."

Blaine's eyes were dripping with tears.

"I thought—" he started, before shaking his head, closing his eyes with a smile. "I thought it was just me," he admitted. "That I was just making it up, because you were so _nice,_ and I wanted to feel that way about someone. That—"

He exhaled sharply.

"I felt like I was being melodramatic and blowing things out of proportion," he explained. "Because I'm so dependent on you, Kurt. No," he added quickly, seeing that Kurt was about to protest. "It's true. Yesterday, when I thought I might lose you…I don't know," he sighed. "It blindsided me. It hurt so much more than it should have. And I can't do that, I can't be so reliant on you, like I've been. It's not fair to either of us."

He looked at Kurt, almost pleadingly. "I'm not saying this very well," he confessed. "I'm not…I'm trying to explain, and it's not really working."

Kurt reached tentatively across the table, taking Blaine's hand in his own. "I thought you were doing all right," he encouraged, making Blaine laugh self-deprecatingly. "Tell me what you need," he asked carefully, watching the tension in Blaine's beautiful, tired face shift slightly.

Blaine scoffed. "What don't I need?" he asked rhetorically.

"Okay, okay," he acquiesced, when Kurt squeezed his hand and looked at him sharply. "I need…you. I still need you, but I need to figure out a better way to do it, that doesn't make you responsible for me."

"I like being responsible for you," Kurt protested weakly.

Blaine shook his head. "But I don't," he disputed, "it doesn't _work _like that. You can't _be_ everything to me like that, it's not good for either of us. I need to be responsible for myself, and not make you feel like you have to take care of me, or make you afraid that you're going to break me. You're not, Kurt."

He gripped Kurt's hand a little tighter. "We both messed this up," he admitted. "When I found out about you and Jesse, it was like my heart stopped, and then you were there and I didn't have time to deal with it. And I shouldn't have treated you like I did, not without talking to you about it first. But Kurt," he entreated, "you can't not tell me the truth about things because you think they'll upset me, okay? Because that's not being honest with me, and I need to be the one who decides what I can handle."

Kurt let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "No, you're right," he realized. "I…you're right."

He shook his head. "When did you get so introspective?" he teased, looking at Blaine wonderingly.

Blaine smiled down at the table. "I told my parents that I wasn't going to see Dr. Weinstein anymore," he told Kurt, quietly glowing. "I'm seeing someone else instead. I haven't really started—I only met her last night, and it was an intake session, so we just kind of talked—but I think she'll be better."

Kurt beamed. "Blaine, that's amazing," he said happily.

Blaine smiled back, daring to look up at Kurt. "I hope so," he admitted.

He paused. "I didn't tell her about you," he confessed. "I wanted to ask you if I could, first. I thought you should have the choice." He looked at Kurt, trying to look nonchalant but failing to completely mask the hope on his face.

Kurt felt his own face softening. "Of course you can," he reassured Blaine. "Blaine, it's your therapy, you can say whatever you want."

Blaine nodded slowly. "There's—she has a group meeting thing on Thursday nights, as well," he said, tracing the rim of his coffee mug with his free hand. "I'm not sure if I'm going to go or not, yet. If I do, though, I won't say anything about you there," he promised. "I just…it's so easy with you. But I need to learn how to connect to people again. Stop being afraid of them."

He looked sadly at Kurt. "That's stupid, isn't it?"

Kurt blinked. "That's the opposite of stupid," he disagreed. "You know what you want, and you're trying to make it happen. That's not stupid at all."

Blaine shrugged. "We'll see," he offered cryptically.

He looked down for a moment, before gazing back at Kurt. "I really am sorry about yesterday," he said sadly. "I was overwhelmed and needed to deal with things, and I didn't even think about how you were feeling."

Kurt bit his lip. "Scared, more than anything," he admitted wryly.

Blaine grimaced apologetically. "I know that now," he promised. "And I'm sorry. You told me before that you've dated other people, and it shouldn't matter to me who they were or how long it's been."

He squirmed in his chair. "I think it would have been fine, if it was anyone but Jesse," he confessed, blushing delicately and looking away. "It's—I know how close you two are, and I don't know if it was insecurity, or jealousy, or…"

"Or," Kurt cut him off. "Blaine, I know you know this, but I'm just going to say it to make sure, all right?"

Blaine nodded.

Kurt nodded back. "Okay," he breathed. "I've dated other people. I don't regret anything that I've done, or anyone that I've been with. I don't have some giant, _Pretty Woman_-esque past, but I haven't spent the last few years in a glass bubble, either. But I'm not with anyone else, all right? I'm with you. Just you. And that's all I want."

Blaine looked conflicted, like he wasn't sure if he wanted to smile or tear up. "That's all I want, too," he professed.

Suddenly, he started laughing.

Kurt raised an eyebrow at him. "What did I miss?" he asked dryly, mock-glaring at Blaine.

Blaine sobered up slightly. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I was just thinking that we're never going to be able to come back here ever again. Not after all of that."

Kurt thought about it. "That's…surprisingly less upsetting than I thought it would be," he admitted. "Screw them anyway. Have you had dinner yet?"

Blaine shook his head. Kurt smiled. "Good. Want to clean up in the bathroom and get out of here?" he asked, batting his eyelashes slyly. "I know this awesome Thai place that we never made it to, the last time we were at the mall."

Standing, Blaine offered Kurt his hand. "I thought you'd never ask," he replied, smiling.

* * *

><p>Kurt woke up Monday morning with a lump in his throat.<p>

His dad was already gone when Kurt went upstairs, a few minutes earlier than usual. There wasn't a note on the counter, but then, Kurt hadn't really expected to find one.

He drank three cups of coffee while hanging his dad's suit, picking a few dead petals off of the flower arrangement he'd chosen the day before, and ironing the lapels of his most formal, black winter coat. Even then, he left for school early and with an extra travel mug, taking care to tape the note for his dad (_"Lasagna in fridge, heat 375 degrees for 45 minutes—NO TAKEOUT! Call if you want me to come home."_) on the front door, where he'd be most likely to see it.

If his hands were shaking all morning, he could blame it on too much caffeine and not enough sleep, and everyone would believe him.

* * *

><p>It was a testament to Kurt's acting ability, or to the obliviousness of his friends and classmates, that his withdrawn mood went unnoticed until 6th period. Kurt, needing an ego boost, preferred to believe the former.<p>

Ironically, it was Shelby who first said anything.

"Oh God, tell me you're not losing your voice right now, Kurt," she insisted, looking up from her desk in the music office when Kurt knocked on the door. "Ben's already out for the week with an injury, and if I have to bench you as well, I'm not going to be happy."

Kurt shook his head. "I'm not sick," he promised.

Shelby raised an eyebrow. "You look it," she said frankly. "Talk to me."

Kurt's mouth twisted. He didn't really want to talk about it, but…it was Shelby. "It's my parent's anniversary," he admitted finally.

Shelby nodded slowly. "How many years has it been?" she wanted to know.

Kurt shrugged. "Eighteen," he replied. "Or eight, depending."

Nine times out of ten, mentioning his mother made people do one of two things: apologize, or look sympathetically at him. Shelby did neither, and Kurt felt a rush of gratitude for that.

"I have something for you," she said instead, opening her desk drawer and pulling out an oversized manila envelope with his name on it.

Kurt took it from her, looking at it curiously. Shelby smiled. "You can open it," she told him. Obediently, Kurt pulled the tab open and reached into the envelope.

Inside were several sheets of music.

Kurt looked up, eyes wide and hardly daring to believe it.

Shelby smirked at his expression. "I thought that might cheer you up," she commented lightly, tapping her pen on the edge of the stack. "Congratulations, Kurt. You're ready."

Sitting back at her desk, Shelby put on her reading glasses and consulted her day planner. "Is this your lunch period?" she asked, looking up at Kurt. He nodded, and she looked back through her schedule. "All right, have that ready to show me on Thursday," she decided. "We'll take it from there, and see how many extra rehearsals we'll need before we start working on it in front of the group."

Kurt cleared his throat. "Am I allowed to tell anyone?" he wanted to know, already thinking of Blaine, and Jesse, and _God, his dad_, and—

"Shut the door," Shelby requested, not unkindly. Kurt obeyed, then sat down in the chair across from Shelby when she pointed at it.

"At rehearsal today, I'm announcing our featured lineup for the coming months," she explained. "The four solo pieces I announced last week are now, at least until Jesse gets back, two duets and two solos."

Kurt nodded along, not entirely surprised—it was what Jesse had told him that he had suggested, after all.

"I'm telling you this ahead of time because when I make that announcement, two of those six names I read out are going to turn some heads," Shelby continued. "It's not every day a sophomore gets assigned a solo position in Vocal Adrenaline."

"Jesse was the youngest soloist in ten years," Kurt remembered breathlessly.

Shelby nodded seriously. "And out of the two of you, you're going to be facing the brunt of the attention," she told him. "I don't know how closely you looked at that"—she indicated the envelope—"but you're not replacing Jesse. That solo is yours."

Kurt was speechless.

Shelby looked amused. "There's a good possibility we won't be using it in competition," she warned. "It's one of the less technically challenging pieces on the roster. God knows Blaine has his work cut out for him with _Bohemian Rhapsody, _even with Ryleigh taking all the high notes," she mused. "But I'll expect you to work hard on it, nonetheless."

Kurt nodded enthusiastically, still not trusting himself to speak. Shelby smiled. "Keep it under your hat until rehearsal, don't talk to the press, and if you get sick, I won't even kill you myself; I'll let Dakota do it," she rattled off mechanically. "See you this afternoon."

* * *

><p>Kurt floated out of the music office in a daze. He had a solo. He had a <em>solo.<em> Of course he had been angling for one and Jesse had hinted that it might happen and his Evaluation on Friday had been one of his best performances to date, but still. There was a difference between _hoping _for something and _actually getting _it. And actually getting recognized by Shelby? Felt exactly as good as he thought it would.

Not that he was _completely_ overwhelmed with happiness and pride; gratitude to Jesse for suggesting him and Shelby for agreeing, although those feelings were certainly the most prominent—a solid 97%, if he was estimating. As usual, the tiny, recessed, hateful parts of his brain managed to make themselves known as well: smugness that _he_ was the one to make such an incredible accomplishment; regret that Shelby couldn't have given him the music on Friday, so that he could have sang it to his mother today; annoyance at Jesse, who _knew_ that Kurt wouldn't have needed Ryleigh's first soprano to fill in the falsetto, because he could hit every single note himself—

Kurt deliberately shut down the part of his brain that was being horrid. _Stop it, _he ordered himself. _You have just received the best news you've gotten all year. You are going to enjoy it. You're going to wait outside Blaine's English class and walk him to Spanish, and you're going to be an excellent, supportive boyfriend. You're going to go to rehearsal and be humble and gracious, then you're going to go home and do your homework and be the model son that Dad needs today. _

_You're also going to stop mentally lecturing yourself, _he added wryly, _because you look more than a little crazy right now._

Extra bounce in his step, Kurt set off for the English hall.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12/? A straight-up cliffhanger, this time around. Chapter 13 is half written though, so no need to strangle me, kay?

So, tomorrow. I strongly suspect I'm not going to get much done. You?

As usual, I don't own anything, including the music. Or a phone that lets me play Sudoku.

* * *

><p>The holidays were fast approaching. Thanksgiving had come and gone, and the weather, if not the calendar, had moved into winter in earnest.<p>

Kurt was being forced to spend over four days without Blaine: his boyfriend had unhappily left with his parents after school on Wednesday to spend Thanksgiving weekend with his grandparents in Pennsylvania. "I'll text you when I can," he'd promised gloomily, "but it'll have to be at night, when nobody's looking—Nana and Opa think that technology depreciates the quality of human contact."

Kurt was hoping that they'd turn out to be uber-hippies or Amish, but apparently they were just old.

Free from the burden of overbearing relatives for every holiday except for Christmas, Kurt had spent a quiet Thanksgiving alone with his dad. Neither of them were particularly zealous about Thanksgiving traditions, but they gamely put the parades and the football games on in the background while they did their respective homework and paperwork. For dinner they ate a few traditional dishes, but Kurt didn't bother making a turkey—roasting a chicken was substantially more practical for their family of two, and Burt honestly couldn't taste the difference. All in all, it was just a slightly-lazier-than-usual Thursday in the Hummel household.

One tradition that Kurt held fast to, however, was Black Friday shopping. And as much as he hadn't wanted Blaine to leave town for so long, he had to admit it: he didn't think either of them were ready for Blaine to witness Kurt in Black Friday mode.

Most of Kurt's shopping partners for the day were girls—he didn't dress as well as he would have liked to, since it wasn't practical to bring a separate outfit to sweat in during rehearsal every day, but he was still gifted with an eye for color coordination, and years of shopping for himself and his dad had taught him how to separate a _real _bargain from a marketing ploy. Girls, it seemed, tended to notice and value those traits more than boys did—and if it meant that Kurt got to ride shotgun when Sasha pulled up in front of his house, hours before sunrise and with four other shoppers and a round of Starbucks, he was totally fine with that.

"All right, ladies and gays," Sasha declared, parking her mom's minivan in the already overstuffed parking lot. "We've spent all year training for this. Don't be afraid to draw blood in the pursuit of glory. But get any on the seats in here, and I'll bury you. Everyone ready?"

Kurt couldn't help but smile at all the grim faces surrounding him. Yeah, Blaine definitely wasn't ready for this side of Kurt yet.

* * *

><p>Kurt did his own shopping quickly—clothes and an appointment calendar for his dad, various books, DVDs, and CDs for his friends, a coffee mug and gift certificate for Shelby—leaving him plenty of time to critique outfits, assist with gift selecting, and take the occasional picture with his phone to send to Blaine when he got home (partly to give him a chance to make sure they were really as funny as his sleep-deprived brain thought, and partly because he wasn't cruel enough to wake Blaine up at 7:30 in the morning just to show him a ridiculous hat). He actually preferred this part of the Black Friday trip, since shopping vicariously didn't involve spending any of his own money. Plus, he was good at it—he might have been a personal shopper at a department store, if his dad hadn't needed him in the shop.<p>

He drew the line, however, when Amanda decided she "absolutely _had _to" scope out the sale at Victoria's Secret.

While everyone else fell into line—even Tom, who wanted to buy something for the 'girlfriend' that Kurt and Sasha had never met and were convinced didn't actually exist—Kurt played the "Gay, thank you" card and volunteered to stay with everyone's shopping bags, with the caveat that anyone not back within half an hour was buying him coffee. After some negotiation, since there was sure to be a ridiculous line for the dressing room as well as the register, Kurt was left sitting cross-legged on a bench outside the store, twenty-three shopping bags at his feet.

He didn't mind—boring waits were why Sudoku was invented.

Halfway through his third puzzle, a familiar voice distracted him from searching the rows for the 4s. "Kurt, I know you like shopping, but isn't this a little excessive?"

Kurt looked up from his phone. Jesse and Rachel were standing on the other side of his mountain of shopping bags, arms linked together. Jesse had half a dozen bags in his free hand, which was starting to turn white and red from the weight compromising his circulation. He was also dressed slightly differently than Kurt was used to seeing—and wearing a 'leather' jacket that looked like it was made from recycled soda cans.

Kurt straightened in his seat. "How about you?" he retorted, smiling dazzlingly and glancing at their collection of bags. "I didn't realize Eddie Bauer was quite your style."

Before Jesse could answer, Rachel brightened. "That one's mine," she told Kurt matter-of-factly. "It's a selection of sweaters for my Two Gay Dads, for Hanukkah. Jesse offered to carry them for me."

Jesse smiled. "We were doing our multi-cultural holiday shopping, and saw you sitting here," he explained placidly. "I told Rachel we had to come over so that the two of you could meet, officially."

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Jesse, Kurt uncrossed his legs so that he could lean over and offer his hand. "You must be Rachel," he said politely, "I've heard a lot about you."

Rachel shook his hand vigorously. "And you're Kurt," she replied. "Jesse's told me that you're moderately talented, and that if you properly developed your competitive streak, you'd be on the same level as we are, performance-wise."

Beside her, Jesse's grin widened.

Kurt gave them his best fake smile, not particularly caring that Jesse would certainly see through it. "Well," he quipped, "aren't you two just made for each other?"

* * *

><p>His conversation with Jesse and Rachel had lasted nearly fifteen minutes—only ending when Rachel mentioned that they'd be late for Lima's Junior High School production of <em>Guys and Dolls<em> if they didn't leave the mall soon—and Kurt knew Jesse well enough to expect a phone call later in the day. And true to form, Jesse called after dinner, while Kurt was sitting on his bedroom floor, wrapping the presents he'd bought earlier in the day.

"You're on speakerphone; I'm driving home from Rachel's house," he told Kurt, the stereo playing softly in the background.

Kurt put him on speakerphone as well, and continued wrapping. "A faux-leather jacket?" he demanded dryly, skipping the usual pleasantries. "Really?"

"Rachel's a vegan," Jesse explained simply.

"Yes, she may have mentioned that once or twice," Kurt replied, rolling his eyes. "And don't think I didn't notice that you agreed with her when she started touting the superiority of sorbet to ice cream. You hate sorbet."

Jesse remained unfazed. "And I appreciate you not bringing that up," he said serenely. "I am working on making my diet more vegan-friendly, but you can't change that sort of thing overnight."

Kurt heard Jesse switching the radio station, from top 40 to jazz.

"So, what did you think of her?" Jesse wanted to know. "Be scathingly honest."

Kurt let out a laugh. "Really?" he asked.

"Really," Jesse replied.

Kurt shrugged, forgetting Jesse couldn't see him. "Well, half of me wanted to tape her mouth shut, just to get her to stop talking about herself. Half of me wanted to burn her wardrobe and start over, because I'm sorry, but that dress was _hideous._ And half of me wanted to invite her over to watch movies. Despite her deficit of social graces, she _does _appear to have excellent taste in musicals, and I think she'd be entertaining to hang out with as long as we could keep her monologues on appropriate topics."

Jesse didn't seem particularly bothered by Kurt's mixed review. "That's more than 100%, Kurt. I thought you were supposed to be good at math," he pointed out lightly.

Kurt taped down another fold of paper. "What can I say, Rachel inspired a lot of feelings," he said wryly. He shifted in his seat. "I still can't believe you told her that you already got into UCLA, by the way," he criticized. "That's a little more serious than your dairy preferences."

He could _hear _Jesse smirking over the phone. "My letter will be here any week now; it's a foregone conclusion," he stated without a trace of uncertainty. "Why should I withhold the excitement from her, just because I don't have the official documentation?"

Kurt scoffed. "How about, _because you don't have the official documentation?_" he stressed.

"It'll be here," Jesse insisted, voice infuriatingly calm.

Kurt sighed. "Once of these days, you're going to get into trouble that you can't talk your way out of," he warned. "And then what are you going to do?"

Jesse laughed. "Let's try to confine our conversation to the realm of possibility, shall we?" he asked. "Now, tell me all about your solo, and how rehearsals are going. But leave out the boring parts that I won't care about; I'll be home in thirty seconds."

* * *

><p>The first day of December was also the day of Kurt's fourth private rehearsal with Shelby. Which was also, incidentally, the number of rehearsals it took Shelby to decide that he was ready to sing his solo during <em>actual <em>rehearsal.

"We'll work on it during the last hour," Shelby had decided, "just to get the spacing down before Dakota comes to work out the choreography tomorrow." Kurt had happily agreed, at least about the first part: he was decidedly not looking forward to being worked over by Dakota, but he was excited about getting to prove himself to Vocal Adrenaline at last.

The fact that he and Blaine were the youngest featured singers besides Jesse in over a decade was old news by that point, and hadn't incited quite the explosion that Shelby had predicted. Interestingly enough, it was Ben whom Kurt had to thank for the peaceful circumstances. When everyone else had begun furiously whispering after Shelby's announcement two weeks prior, Ben had gotten up from his seat, limped over to where Kurt and Blaine were sitting, and shaken their hands. "I think it's terrific," he'd announced in a loud voice. "We're going to need to take advantage of all the talent we have, with Jesse being gone."

Ben was extremely well liked, both in Vocal Adrenaline and within Carmel at large. His approval had quieted nearly all the grumblings of dissent, and Blaine had thanked him genuinely.

Kurt had left three batches of fudge-frosted, seven-layer brownies in his locker the next day.

Another reason that nobody made a huge deal out of the situation, Kurt figured, was Blaine himself. Although he was still more than a little cautious about meeting new people, Blaine had apparently come to the conclusion that the auditorium was a safe enough space, and had slowly begun unfurling over the past few weeks. His gradual transformation wasn't going unnoticed by the rest of the group, who were almost universally taken with his intelligence, shy sweetness, and flashes of humor. And while Blaine still tended to make a beeline for Kurt immediately after rehearsals or whenever they were given breaks, Kurt had seen him initiating conversations with a select few of their teammates on more than one occasion.

It was actually for that reason that Kurt didn't get a chance to break the news about his solo to Blaine before rehearsal: when Kurt walked in to the auditorium, five minutes before warm-ups, Sarabeth was pointing to something in her notebook and talking rapidly, while Blaine nodded along politely. Glancing up and noticing Kurt, he smiled brightly and held up a finger in a 'one minute' gesture, before turning back to Sarabeth.

Kurt was by no means _un_popular, and he really was thrilled that Blaine was starting to make friends. He just hoped with everything he had that he was gracious enough to not mind when Blaine's popularity inevitably outstripped his own.

"All right, finish stretching and get ready to warm up," Shelby called through the noise. "We have a lot to do today."

* * *

><p>They worked for nearly two hours on one of the group numbers before Shelby switched focus. "That's enough for today; we'll come back to it on Thursday," she decided. "Everybody get a drink and come back onstage, we're starting a new piece today. Kurt," she asked, as the others scattered backstage, "are you warmed up enough?"<p>

Kurt nodded, smiling. He caught Blaine's surprised-but-delighted expression out of the corner of his eye, and felt the corners of his mouth creep up even further.

"Good," Shelby continued, startling him back into focus. "You know how it goes—you'll sing it once in front of everyone, then I'll start setting the blocking, one verse at a time. Danny will play along with you; let him know if you need a note. Got it?"

"Got it," Kurt answered confidently, making her smile.

Oddly enough, he really wasn't nervous to sing in front of the group. They were a competitive bunch, some ruthlessly so, but they respected Shelby's decisions and appreciated talent: if he sang as well as he'd been doing in practice, he wouldn't run into any problems.

Blaine was waiting for him backstage with a bottle of water. "You didn't tell me you were singing today!" he accused without malice, buzzing with excitement. "Are you ready?"

Kurt grinned back, taking the water gratefully. "Born ready," he promised, cracking the seal on the water bottle and taking a large sip. "Do my ego a favor, and clap really loudly when I blow you away."

Blaine laughed. "I think your ego's doing just fine on its own," he pointed out. "But I'll do it anyway. I can't wait to hear you sing, Kurt."

Before Kurt could answer, Shelby was calling everyone back onstage. "We've got another 45 minutes of blocking," she warned, "so everyone stretch while you listen. Kurt?"

Kurt took a deep breath and nodded. His teammates were spread out across the stage; some following Shelby's edict and stretching, others staring at him with visible interest.

Blaine sat directly center stage, smiling sweetly and not even pretending to do anything other than watch Kurt.

Kurt nodded to Danny, who gave him an opening pitch before starting to play. Kurt took one last breath before beginning:

"_The stars lean down to kiss you, as I lie awake and miss you, pour me a heavy dose of atmosphere…"_

Like Kurt had explained to Blaine, everyone in Vocal Adrenaline had sung together so often that they knew each other's basic capabilities. Still, only about half of his teammates had ever heard him sing alone before, and none of them had heard him sing alone since Shelby had begun coaching him. Kurt wasn't actively looking for the group's reaction, afraid of psyching himself out and losing confidence mid-performance, but the few expressions he did catch were positive: surprise, attentiveness, appreciation.

Blaine was in the middle of everything, smiling radiantly. Kurt smiled back at him gently as he hit the bridge.

"_As many times as I blink I'll think of you, tonight…"_

Blaine beamed.

Kurt began the last verse with renewed confidence. He had put his all into the piece and, just like at Evaluations, he knew it had paid off. Nearly everyone had stopped stretching at that point, sitting up and watching him instead, and he could see Shelby nodding with approval from over by the piano.

As he finished the final line (_"Oh darling, I wish you were here,"_) and Danny played the instrumental ending, everyone began clapping; at least two-thirds of the team looking genuinely happy that he had done well—a more solid margin than Kurt was counting on.

Blaine was the last to stop applauding, a heartbreaking smile on his face.

"Very nice," Shelby praised. "All right, everyone, find a size-appropriate partner. Thirty seconds, go."

* * *

><p>Kurt's phone buzzed in the middle of the night.<p>

_Heard today went well—congratulations on not sucking._

Kurt blinked blearily at his clock. It was 2:44 am.

He texted back, fingers fumbling slowly over the keypad.

_Thanks. Buy a watch, idiot._

Kurt closed his eyes, keeping his phone in his hand. Just as he was about to drift back off, the phone went off again.

_:)_

Kurt smiled back faintly, before tossing the phone onto his nightstand and closing his eyes.

Thirty seconds later, he was back to sleep.

* * *

><p>On Wednesday, Blaine was waiting for Kurt in History class with a dozen pink tulips and a shy smile. "I would have brought them yesterday, if I'd known it was going to be your big debut," he teased.<p>

Nobody besides his dad had ever brought him flowers before. Rather than take them from Blaine, Kurt wrapped his hands around Blaine's at the base of the bouquet, pulling him in closer under the pretense of smelling the flowers. "They're perfect," he said honestly, trying not to tear up at the unexpected show of affection. "You didn't have to do that; thank you."

Blaine smiled back as the bell rang. Kurt kept the flowers on the corner of his desk for the entire lecture, reaching over every minute or so to stroke the petals in disbelief.

That settled it. He and Blaine were definitely getting married, whether Blaine wanted to or not.

"I was wondering," Blaine asked after class, as they walked down the hall toward Kurt's French classroom. "Do you think I could come over tonight to practice?"

Kurt looked at him, slightly confused. "Of course you can," he allowed, "but are you sure you _want _to? We have practice until six; our voices will be pretty worn out."

Blaine squirmed uncomfortably. "I know," he admitted. "It's just—Shelby says she might have Ryleigh and I sing _Bohemian Rhapsody _at rehearsal on Friday. We've had a couple of practices, and she thinks we're ready."

Kurt made himself smile-he was _not_ jealous. "Blaine, that's great," he offered kindly.

Blaine frowned.

"Isn't it?" Kurt asked hesitantly.

Blaine sighed. _"I_ just don't think I'm ready," he confessed. "I thought maybe if I sang it for just you first, it would help."

Kurt squeezed his hand. "I do have a rather discerning ear," he preened.

Blaine's frown relaxed. "I was thinking more along the lines of 'your opinion is the one that matters most to me', but we'll go with that," he said, squeezing back.

Kurt nodded thoughtfully. "I like that better," he decided. "Flatterer."

Blaine grinned. "Always," he replied lightly.

Kurt tilted his head. "We're becoming one of those nauseating couples whom I can't stand, aren't we?" he lamented.

Blaine nodded sadly.

Kurt shrugged. "Should we appropriately commemorate the event by making out in the hall and grossing everyone out?" he asked jokingly, one eyebrow raised.

At least, Kurt thought it was a joke, until Blaine stopped walking, looking at him like he was thinking hard about something.

"Blaine," he backpedaled, "I was kidding. I know PDA in school makes you uncomfortable. I would never ask that from you."

Blaine bit his lip. "But what if I want to?" he asked quietly. "You've said it before, there's nothing to be scared of here. What if I want to kiss you right now?"

Kurt swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. "Then," he said softly, "I would say, 'Kiss me'."

He stepped forward into Blaine's personal space, keeping his fingers intertwined with Blaine's. After a moment, Blaine's eyelashes fluttered shut as he closed the distance between them.

* * *

><p>Rehearsal was exactly as rough as Kurt had expected. Now that Vocal Adrenaline had the basic movements down, the real work began. Dakota was relentlessly critical of each little step as he added more and more layers of complexity to the piece, and Kurt had never felt quite so mediocre in his life. Singing lead came with a price, and part of that price was often being the focus of Dakota's seemingly endless ire—every move Kurt made, every note he hit, Dakota had something to say about it.<p>

And while Kurt would never wish anything ill on his teammates, but he couldn't help but feel another rush of gratitude towards Ben—the five minutes Dakota spent yelling in his direction that a broken toe was 'not a real injury' was the most peaceful five minutes Kurt spent in the auditorium that day.

By the time practice was over ("That was an incredible waste of time, and I hope you're all ashamed of yourselves. You! Walk in front of me with a bucket; I'm going to vomit any minute now.") Kurt's voice was beyond hoarse and his legs were weirdly sore and he wanted nothing more than to go home, take a double dose of aspirin, and sleep for a week.

Blaine looked worried. "Are you okay?" he wanted to know, picking up Kurt's bag from the ground where Kurt had been staring at it helplessly, willing it to jump up into his arms so that he wouldn't have to bend over. "He was really mean to you."

Kurt shrugged painfully. "He's like that with every soloist," he explained hollowly. "He likes to break the weak ones early, so he doesn't have to spend any time or talent on people who are going to crack under pressure anyway." It was true—Kurt had seen it firsthand.

It still didn't really make him feel any better, or help explain why, exactly, he was defending Dakota to Blaine.

Blaine insisted on carrying Kurt's things to the parking lot for him, and probably would have insisted on carrying _Kurt _to the parking lot if Kurt hadn't rolled his eyes and smiled at the suggestion. "I'm fine, just tired," he promised more than once.

"And yes, before you ask, I'm fine to drive home," he added, noticing the way Blaine was eyeing the keys in his hand. "And anyway, unless you're planning on driving two cars at once? Good luck stopping me."

* * *

><p>The porch light at Kurt's house was off and his dad's car was gone, which was about what Kurt had expected—Burt was sometimes home before 6:20, but it was still on the early side for him. Blaine must have noticed the empty driveway as well, or maybe he was just naturally considerate; either way, he parked his car behind Kurt's, leaving Burt's space open.<p>

He was at Kurt's side as Kurt moved sluggishly, gathering possessions with hands that seemed to weigh twice what they usually did. "Let me help you with that," Blaine insisted, taking Kurt's school supplies and duffel bag from Kurt's arms and leaving Kurt with only his keys and travel mug.

"I can…okay," Kurt replied wearily, giving up halfway through his protest. It wasn't worth it; he was worn out, and if Blaine wanted to carry his things, good for both of them. As it was, it took him three attempts to fit his front door key in the lock.

He managed to smile at Blaine as the other boy gently set his things on the stairs and slipped out of his shoes. "I'm making some tea," he declared, voice still a little hoarser than he'd have liked. "Do you want some?"

Blaine closed his eyes, tipping his head back. "God yes," he agreed fervently, before pausing. "Are you sure you should be touching the stove right now?" he asked, concerned. "I'm a little worried that you're going to fall over. Do you want me to make you a sandwich?"

Kurt had to smile—which was interesting to him: anyone else pulling that Mama Bear crap would have been met with annoyance and disdain. On Blaine, it was…kind of cute. "I just need something for my throat," he insisted, "and I'll use the electric kettle if you're that concerned. Go warm up; I need background music."

Kurt made the tea without incident, using oversized mugs filled only a little more than halfway in order to appease Blaine's (needless) worries. "Careful, it's still hot," he warned, setting the mugs down on the coffee table, before settling down on the couch next to Blaine.

Blaine ignored them, and instead took the fleece blanket draped over the back of the couch and spread it over Kurt's lap. He snaked his arms around Kurt's waist, snuggling into Kurt's shoulder and making him feel warm in more ways than one.

He leaned into Blaine's embrace. "Hi," he said sleepily, letting Blaine pull him in tighter, feeling Blaine smiling into his neck.

"Hi," Blaine answered back, voice muffled by the collar of Kurt's shirt. "I like you like this," he confessed.

Kurt laughed weakly. "What—sore, exhausted, and slightly down-trodden?" he asked wryly, reaching up and ruffling Blaine's curls.

Blaine's hand shook under his fingers. "No," he answered simply. "Here, relaxing with me. Letting me hold you, like you're mine." He leaned in closer, kissing Kurt's cheek, then the corner of his mouth, then his lips, deepening the kiss when Kurt turned to meet him.

And maybe Kurt would have to rethink that whole atheism thing, because the way Blaine's soft lips teased him—for just a second—before opening up to him in a flash of warmth and heat couldn't possibly be anything less than a gift from God. Kurt felt Blaine's hand snaking into his hair, cradling his head and pulling him closer; could feel Blaine's body, warm and electric and pressed up against him in the best way. His head was swimming and his skin was warm and tingling, a rush spreading through his veins and coursing through his whole body, and it was only when he realized that _certain parts_ of him were starting to take notice of the situation that he pulled back from Blaine, smiling and out of breath.

"If your intention was to wake me back up," he said throatily, "then Congratulations. Also, if it turns out you do that to every audience member who looks a bit tired, I'm going to be extremely put out."

Blaine looked as flushed and out of breath as Kurt assumed he himself did. "I don't, and that was not my intention," he said, grinning, "but I'll take it."

He leaned over and picked up the mugs of tea from the table, handing one to Kurt before snuggling back into Kurt's side. "I probably can't sing from here, can I?" he asked sadly, making Kurt smirk gently.

He took a sip of his tea—still a little hot, but bearable. "You might have some trouble," he conceded. "Get up and get it over with; I'll save your spot until you come back, if you'd like."

"I'd like," Blaine agreed. Slowly, he sat up, stretching his arms out and taking a drink before standing. "You're going to have to ignore the missing lines," he warned, "since I don't have Ryleigh. And I'll just skip part of the intro, since it isn't really mine."

He looked weirdly, adorably nervous. "Do you want me to fill in for Ryleigh?" Kurt asked. "I don't have the music, but I'm—"

"No, no, no," Blaine interrupted, "you're supposed to be resting your voice. Just…pretend it's there, okay?"

Slightly skeptical, but wanting to be supportive, Kurt nodded. Blaine took a deep breath. _"I'm just a poor boy, I need no sympathy…"_

Kurt listened—really listened—as Blaine sang. He was every bit as incredible as Kurt had expected him to be, and then some. His voice was rich but flexible, hitting notes with a strength and emotional depth that Kurt _knew_ most of Vocal Adrenaline wouldn't ever be able to achieve.

He swallowed.

He could see, now, why Jesse thought that Blaine was better for the part than he was; why he had warned Kurt that Blaine might be his most serious competition for the top spot next year. Because Blaine wasn't perfect, but he was really, _really _close.

Maybe even better than Jesse.

And he didn't even know it. Kurt had asked him, that first week, how good a singer he was. And Blaine had given himself a _5 ½. _

"_Nothing really matters, anyone can see," _Blaine continued, lips quirking slightly into a smile now that he was nearly finished. "_Nothing really matters, nothing really matters, to me…any way the wind blows…"_

He stopped, breathing heavily, looking nervously at Kurt.

Kurt put down his tea and started clapping.

"Blaine," he said slowly, "that was incredible. I have no idea why you're so worried about rehearsal; you're going to be amazing."

Blaine let out a sigh of relief. "Really?" he asked, his tone slightly incredulous, as if Kurt's approval was almost too good to be true.

Kurt laughed. "I'm very critical," he promised, "I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. I mean, there are a couple spots in the middle we should probably go over, just because they didn't feel _quite _as solid as the rest, but really—you're going to be fantastic."

Blaine's smile wavered slightly.

Kurt kind of wanted to kick himself in the face. "Hey, no—don't look like that," he said earnestly, holding his hands out for Blaine to take. "Very critical, remember? I've been trained to nitpick—and trust me, if _that's _the only thing I can think of for you to work on, you're ridiculously good for Friday."

Blaine's eyes softened. "I know, I'm sorry," he sighed, taking Kurt's hands and letting Kurt pull him back down to the couch. "I haven't really worked on the whole 'accepting criticism' thing yet. I probably should, huh?" He smiled self-deprecatingly, glancing over at Kurt quickly before looking away again.

"As a general life skill, probably," Kurt agreed. "But not because of your singing. Blaine," he stressed. "I mean it. They already love you; this is just going to reinforce it."

Blaine shrugged, his worried expression melting into a genuine smile at Kurt's praise. "If you say so," he agreed, trying and failing to hide the happiness in his voice.

Kurt grinned. "I do," he promised, before leaning over and tilting Blaine's face toward his own. Blaine laughed softly before reaching up and pulling Kurt in, finally dropping the neutral pretense and smiling into Kurt's mouth. Emboldened, Kurt's hands dropped to Blaine's waist, grasping Blaine's shirt and _tugging _until Blaine got the hint and climbed into his lap, his mouth warm and wet and everywhere and—

A loud cough came from the doorway. "Kurt?"

Before Kurt could even react, Blaine had flown off of his lap; huddling at the far end of the couch and curling in on himself, staring at Burt with wide, fearful eyes.

Kurt wasn't doing much better. "…Dad," he managed, in a high, semi-strangled voice. "You're…here."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13/? Or, The Fallout, if you will.

So this chapter…got a little out of control in certain places. Not Granting Hands Visas to Travel South of the Border out of control, but. Be warned.

I don't own anything but a laptop and a dream.

* * *

><p><em>A loud cough came from the doorway. "Kurt?"<em>

_Before Kurt could even react, Blaine had flown off of his lap; huddling at the far end of the couch and curling in on himself, staring at Burt with wide, fearful eyes._

_Kurt wasn't doing much better. "…Dad," he managed, in a high, semi-strangled voice. "You're…here."_

* * *

><p>Burt ignored him. "Someone you want to introduce me to, Kurt?" he asked gruffly, nodding to Blaine without taking his eyes off of Kurt.<p>

Kurt swallowed, mouth suddenly painfully dry. "This is—he's my—" he floundered, glancing back between Blaine and his dad, unsure how exactly to handle the situation when he had absolutely _no context _for how his dad was going to react.

"Blaine," he finished finally, lamely.

Burt nodded. "Uh huh. And, uh, how long has he been 'Your Blaine'?" he asked, folding his arms in front of him and glaring slightly.

Kurt, so unused to seeing that expression directed at him, couldn't speak.

Finally, Blaine cleared his throat quietly. "A little over a month, sir," he answered timidly.

Burt glanced at him before looking back at Kurt. And then he turned back to Blaine, as if really noticing him for the first time. Kurt wasn't sure what he was seeing—a boy who he'd caught in his house, in his son's _lap_, tongue halfway down Kurt's throat? A boy who he didn't even know; who Kurt hadn't bothered to introduce him to? A boy who stood for everything that he and Kurt could never bring themselves to talk about—sex, adult relationships, adulthood in general?

Kurt hoped that whatever Burt was thinking about Blaine, he'd notice the way that Blaine was trembling in fear before he started yelling.

Without thinking, he reached over and gripped Blaine's shaking hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

Burt opened his mouth for several seconds, before closing it and shaking his head. "Blaine," he said ominously, "I think it's about time you started heading home. Your parents are probably wondering where you are, and I need to have a talk with my son."

Blaine looked at Kurt, obviously unsure of what to do. Kurt stroked his hand with his thumb. "It's okay," he promised quietly, trying to sound confident and soothing. "I'll see you tomorrow, before school. I promise."

Blaine looked like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it after another glance at Burt. Nodding quickly, he squeezed Kurt's hand painfully hard. "Bye, Mr. Hummel," he managed in a shaky voice on the way out of the room.

Kurt and his dad stared at each other, both listening to the sound of Blaine rapidly throwing on his shoes and coat before heading out the door in an obvious hurry.

* * *

><p>The ticking clock in the kitchen had never been quite so loud.<p>

Burt was the first one to speak. "I gotta say, Kurt, I'm a little surprised at you," he said with a sigh. "That isn't like you, pulling a stunt like tonight."

Kurt couldn't look his dad in the eye; he _hated _when Burt was disappointed in him.

But he had to know. "When you say stunt," he said quietly, eyes trained on the table. "Do you mean kissing a boy, or not telling you about it?"

"Pick one," Burt answered, voice hard.

Kurt inhaled sharply, trying with everything he had not to cry.

His dad must have noticed, because when he spoke again, his voice was gentler. "Look, Buddy," he sighed, "I know we don't talk about these kinds of things. And that's my fault; I know I'm busy, and a lot of times I let you take care of yourself instead of stepping in and being a parent, because you're just so damn good at it. And maybe there are a lot of times that I don't realize just how much you _need _someone. But kid," he said earnestly, "you've gotta cut me some slack here, okay? If I don't know there's a game going on, how am I supposed to know the score?"

Kurt chanced a glance up at his dad. Burt was watching him, an unfamiliar expression on his face.

Catching his eyes, Burt shrugged helplessly. "I don't even know what questions I'm supposed to be asking you right now," he admitted, shaking his head a bit.

Kurt swallowed, feeling guiltier that he had in a long time for making his dad look and sound like that. "What do you want to know?" he asked in a shaky voice, steeling himself to tell Burt the truth about anything he asked—he deserved to know, more than Kurt deserved to keep so many secrets.

Burt didn't even blink. "What do you want to tell me?" he countered.

Kurt nodded slowly. He could do this.

"Blaine. I—I've liked him since he transferred to Carmel, almost two months ago," he started slowly. "I knew he liked me, but I didn't know if he wanted anything more than to be friends, for at least the first few weeks he was here."

This was so awkward. He looked questioningly up at Burt, who nodded to indicate that he should keep going. "After Sectionals," Kurt continued, "we were all just so excited, and everyone was so _happy, _and we were together…and he kissed me."

Kurt smiled at the memory. "I was afraid he might not have really meant it at first," he explained, purposely leaving out why he'd initially thought that. "But he did, and we've been dating ever since. And Dad, I…"

He trailed off. "We're taking it slow, I have to tell you that," he pressed. "But I think it's serious. I _really _care about him, so much."

Burt tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. "That's the thing, Kurt," he said, sounding tired. "The way you looked at him back there; how you held his hand? I could tell you care a lot about him.

"What I don't get," he continued, "is if you care about him, and you think this is going to turn into something big for you, why you didn't think to tell me about him."

Kurt paused.

That was the one question his subconscious had fervently prayed that Burt would avoid asking. Because no matter how much Kurt tried to think of a more reasonable explanation, one that his dad would accept without examining it too hard, his inner voice unwillingly came back to the truth every time:

_Because you're not Mom._

Kurt blinked back tears before Burt could see them. "Can you ask me something easier, for now?" he asked in a small voice.

Burt looked for a moment like he was going to protest. Instead, he settled back in his chair. "Why did Blaine transfer?" he wanted to know.

Kurt shrugged weakly. "I don't know, exactly," he admitted. When Burt gave him A Look, he raised his hands in surrender. "I really don't," he promised.

"And you haven't asked," Burt said flatly, clearly still at least partially disbelieving.

Kurt frowned at the table. "I can't ask him, Dad," he said slowly, sadly. "If you had seen him when he first got to Carmel…"

He swallowed. "You sent me there because you knew what life would have been like for me at McKinley," he reminded Burt. "His parents…didn't. When I saw him for the first time, he was bruised and beaten up, and there was something so _broken _about him, I just—it was like looking at what might have been. What I would have been like, if things had worked out differently."

Kurt looked at his dad. Burt's eyes had gone from skeptical to understanding, and maybe even a little bit angry—on Blaine's behalf, this time.

Kurt bit his lip. "I met one of his old friends, and she implied that something really bad happened at their school dance," he continued, "and whatever it was was the thing that made him leave his old school. But I can't ask him about it, not until he'd ready to talk about it. I just…"

He sighed. "It wouldn't be right," he finished.

Burt nodded. "His parents?" he asked gruffly.

Kurt's mouth twisted. "They don't hit him, if that's what you're asking," he pointed out quickly. "But they're not like you. They love him, but they don't _really _accept him."

Burt grunted softly in displeasure. "Do they know about you?" he wondered.

Kurt shook his head. "I doubt it," he replied, voice clipped as he thought about Blaine's startled, borderline hysterical physical reaction to seeing Burt.

He couldn't imagine what Blaine would have done if it was his father who had caught them instead of Kurt's.

Burt rubbed a hand over his head. "I don't know, Kid," he sighed. "This is a lot to throw at me at once."

Kurt nodded. "I know," he said apologetically.

Burt looked at him. "Do you wish you had done it differently?" he asked, tilting his head and staring, the way Kurt knew he had inherited.

Kurt looked away. "It's not the way I would have chosen for you to find out," he admitted, choosing his words carefully.

If Burt noticed, which Kurt suspected he did, he didn't say anything.

Instead, he got up from the table, grabbing a beer from the refrigerator. "You invite him over for dinner this weekend," he told Kurt, leaning against the counter and popping the tab on the can. "I want to meet him for real."

Kurt nodded. "I'll ask him," he agreed.

Burt looked at him sternly. "You'll tell him," he corrected. "Kid comes into my house when I'm not here and does _that_ sort of thing with my son, I want to make sure he knows who's gonna snap his neck if he doesn't treat you right."

* * *

><p>If Burt slept in his chair that night, Kurt didn't know anything about it—after a perfunctory shower to wash off the worst of rehearsal, he slept like the dead.<p>

* * *

><p>Kurt had a hard time paying attention in class the next morning. For one thing, the rain lashing at the windows was incredibly noisy and distracting, and more than once Kurt caught himself staring absently at the nearly-bare branches of the trees, thrashing in the wind.<p>

For another, Blaine hadn't been at his locker that morning, and Kurt hadn't been able to find his car in the cursory glance he'd taken at the parking lot in between classes.

When the bell signaling the beginning of 4th period rang and there was still no sign of Blaine, Kurt began worrying in earnest. Blaine hadn't missed a day of school since he had transferred in, and while it was probably for the best that he'd waited until their day off from VA to be absent, the idea that Blaine might be sick or hurt (or avoiding Kurt because of the night before) was an uncomfortable one.

Kurt sighed quietly. There was no way he was going to be able to get through the entire school day not knowing if Blaine was okay.

God, he was so old and married.

As Mrs. Jennings handed out a pop quiz on NAFTA, Kurt quickly hatched a plan. Scribbling down the answers as fast as he coherently could—a relatively painless five minutes; he did study, after all—he took his completed quiz up to the front of the room. Passing in his paper, he put on an affected, queasy smile.

"Mrs. Jennings," he asked in a quiet voice, pretending to glance around the room to ensure that nobody was listening, "may I have a bathroom pass? I'm not feeling very well."

Mrs. Jennings looked at him with some concern. "You do look a little flushed," she agreed discreetly, surprising Kurt a little. "Do you need to go to the nurse?"

Kurt shook his head, smiling bravely. "I think I'll be okay," he answered. "Maybe I'll go lie down during lunch, if I'm not feeling any better by then."

Mrs. Jennings handed him the oversized lavatory pass, a giant block of wood with the word "BOYS" written across it in black Sharpie. Nodding his thanks, Kurt took it from her and slunk out of the classroom, cradling his stomach with one hand as he quietly closed the door behind him.

* * *

><p>Bypassing the men's room entirely, Kurt ducked into a janitor's closet and pulled his detention-worthy-during-school-hours cell phone out of the pocket of his sweater. Turning it on, he quickly muted the sound before checking his messages and missed calls.<p>

None were from Blaine. Kurt quickly typed out a text.

_Are you all right? Where are you?_

He watched the screen nervously. Realistically, he had about five minutes before Mrs. Jennings started worrying about him, and he'd rather not be caught in his lie by whatever classmate she sent to check up on him—he was a fabulous actor, sure, but not even he could vomit on cue.

But still, he _really _didn't want to go back to class without knowing that Blaine was all right.

Luckily, he didn't have long to wait—Blaine texted him back almost immediately.

_My mom made me stay home today—I didn't fall asleep until after 5 and slept through my alarm, so she thinks I'm sick._

Another text came through before Kurt could even begin responding:

_Are you okay? I didn't want to leave you last night, but I didn't know what else to do._

Kurt's fingers flew over the keypad.

_I'm fine, don't worry about it. We talked and it was awkward, but it's okay. Do you want me to bring you your homework after school?_

Kurt waited one minute, then two, for Blaine to respond. He chewed on his fingernail as he glanced worriedly at the clock on the phone—he _really _needed to get back to class before he got in trouble, but he didn't want to shut his phone off and leave without hearing back from Blaine.

It was like the Initial Flirtatious Note-Passing all over again: same sense of urgency hanging on each response. It would have been amusing, if Kurt was less worried.

Right when he was about to give up and go back to History, his screen lit up.

_I'd like that 3 _

Relieved smile on his face, Kurt sent a quick _3 _back before hitting the power button and hurrying back down the hall.

* * *

><p>It took far longer than Kurt had anticipated to get to Blaine's house that afternoon.<p>

First, he'd had to go to the attendance office to get a hard copy of Blaine's schedule—he only had about half of it memorized, and didn't want to have to text Blaine in order to demand a complete list of his teachers. The office secretary was more than willing to assist him once he explained why he needed his boyfriend's schedule, but was unfortunately out of printer ink. A quick search of the room's office supply stash wasted another five minutes, and ended up being entirely fruitless.

By the time Kurt had hand-copied Blaine's schedule and gone around to all the different department offices, his math teacher had already left for the day. Kurt, who was in a higher level class with a different teacher, ended up texting the three people he knew for certain were in Blaine's math class in order to get the assignment.

And of course, it was still raining when Kurt left Carmel. He was forced to drive extra cautiously (which meant extra slowly) on the back roads, windshield wipers and headlights on despite the fairly early hour.

When Kurt was President, he was outlawing inclement weather.

When he finally pulled into Blaine's driveway, the rain had tapered off to a freezing drizzle, and Kurt could see Blaine's face in the window, watching him anxiously through the glass. Not bothering with an umbrella, Kurt tucked Blaine's things into the fold of his unbuttoned coat. Holding the dark grey wool in place with his other hand, he ran to the front door, slightly hunched over to protect the papers from the rain.

Blaine met him on the porch. "I was worried about you," he explained, giving Kurt a tight hug despite the light mist clinging to Kurt's peacoat. "They cancelled Group tonight, since the roads are starting to get icy."

Kurt exhaled, watching his breath fog up the air in front of him. "I believe it," he agreed. "I've had snow tires on my car since the first week of November."

He glanced at Blaine's car, sitting in the last port of the Anderson's garage. "We should put some on yours as well," he noted seriously, "especially if this is your first winter driving."

He smiled charmingly. "I'd put them on for free, obviously," he promised, batting his eyelashes, "and my dad would give you a discount on the tires themselves, since you're a Carmel student. He likes to promote vehicular safety among teenage drivers."

"Oh God, your dad," Blaine moaned dramatically, ignoring the rest of Kurt's words and dropping his face into his palms. "Are you in so much trouble?" he asked anxiously, "does he hate me?"

Kurt dropped the folder with Blaine's assignments on the arm of an Adirondack chair and took Blaine's wrists in his hands. "He doesn't hate you, he was just surprised," he said soothingly, gently prying Blaine's hands from his face. "And like I said, we talked. Awkwardly."

He paused, rubbing the thin skin of Blaine's wrist with his thumb. "Are you—"

Blaine looked up at him when he didn't finish the question. "Am I what?" he asked quietly, sliding his arms out of Kurt's grasp and taking his hands instead.

Kurt exhaled sharply. "Are you mad, that I hadn't told him about you yet?" he wanted to know. "Because I would understand it, if you were."

Blaine frowned. "I hadn't thought about it like that," he admitted.

Kurt nodded slowly. "I need you to know that I would have told him," he said earnestly, meeting Blaine's conflicted expression. "Eventually, I would have. And it's not—"

He sighed, looking down at the porch. Blaine continued to hold his hands, waiting patiently.

"We don't have that kind of relationship," Kurt explained finally, "where we talk about…boys, things like that. I wish we did, but…"

Kurt's mouth twisted sadly. "We just don't, I guess," he continued. "Maybe we would, if I wasn't so busy with school and Vocal Adrenaline, and he didn't spend so much time at the garage. Maybe we wouldn't anyway, I don't know. It's just so easy for us to go for days without talking about anything, _real,_ that it's just what we do. We love each other, and I know that I'm his world now that Mom's gone, and—"

Kurt broke off as his throat tightened uncomfortably.

"Sorry," he apologized, smiling painfully. "What that was supposed to sound like was, 'I'm sorry I didn't tell him, and please don't think it has anything to do with you because it doesn't'."

Blaine shook his head. "I can't be mad at you for that," he told Kurt honestly. "My parents don't know about you either. Well, they _know _about you, obviously. Just not like that."

Kurt shrugged. "I didn't think they did," he admitted.

He blinked at Blaine, whose lips were starting to turn slightly blue. "God, you're freezing," he breathed, plucking at the cotton of Blaine's white, slightly too big long-sleeved shirt. "You should go back inside."

Blaine nodded. "You should come in," he invited Kurt, stepping back and opening the door. "Sorry, I wasn't even thinking about that; my manners are clearly off today."

Kurt followed Blaine into the foyer, which was heavy with shadows; the only light coming from the living room, off to the left, where Blaine had been waiting for him. "Are your parents home?" he asked, looking around interestedly at the glittering gold and red Christmas decorations that had been put up sometime during the past week.

"Mom was here, but she ran out to the store," Blaine explained. "She needed something for dinner, and she wanted to be back before the roads got too bad."

He gave Kurt a flickering smile, eyes shining with the reflected light. "Don't worry, she knew you were coming," he promised. "She likes you; she thinks you're 'a good role model'."

Kurt had to laugh at that. "What, you don't think so?" he asked, pretending to be wounded when Blaine rolled his eyes in return.

Kurt's laughter faded, and in the easy silence he reached out to Blaine, running his fingertips down Blaine's arms, all the way past the edge of his sleeves. "What would they think if they knew?" he asked quietly, toying with the hem of Blaine's shirt and listening to the slight sound of his sudden, harsh breath.

"I don't know," Blaine admitted, tracing Kurt's hands lightly with his own. "I just, I don't…"

He stopped, shaking his head.

Kurt reached out, tilting Blaine's face up and looking at him. "It's okay if you're not ready for them to know about me," he assured Blaine. "I don't like hiding who I am in my own life, but this is your family. You don't have to—"

"I just don't want them to look at you like that," Blaine interrupted fiercely, voice tight. "You're just…you're so wonderful, and I don't want them to look at you like you're not. I'd lose it with them if they looked at you like that."

Kurt had never seen Blaine even slightly angry before. It was…a lot of things, things that Kurt would have to think about when he didn't have a beautiful, slightly upset boy in front of him.

Blaine took a steadying breath. "I'll tell them," he promised. "When I think they're ready to hear it, I'll tell them."

Kurt smiled, small and delicate. "There's no rush," he said, tilting his head andlooking at Blaine with soft eyes. "I'll be here."

Blaine's eyes glittered with unshed tears. "Kurt," he managed to get out, his voice slightly strangled.

Kurt leaned in, smiling, and kissed him. "I know," he said breathlessly, wrapping his arms around Blaine and resting his head on Blaine's shoulder. "And for the record, I think you're wonderful too," he added softly, reaching up and toying with Blaine's curls.

Blaine pulled away from him, and before Kurt had time to adjust to the sudden movement, Blaine was gripping his face in both hands and kissing him—desperately and insistently, mouth open and wet.

Kurt moaned involuntarily, hands scrabbling for purchase on Blaine's waist, grasping at the fabric and dragging him in closer. Blaine's left hand slid down to his neck, pulling Kurt in tighter and deeper, making Kurt shake slightly under his grip. "Blaine," he gasped weakly, "your mom—"

"I don't care," Blaine panted into his mouth. "We'll hear her, she'll come in through the kitchen, I don't care." Without waiting for Kurt to answer, Blaine kissed him harshly, pushing Kurt back a few feet until his shoulderblades hit the nearest wall with a slight _thump._ Reaching into Kurt's coat, Blaine tugged him in by the belt loops, and Kurt's hands flew to Blaine's hair as Blaine released Kurt's mouth with an obscene popping sound and latched onto his neck.

Kurt whined desperately as Blaine sucked on the delicate skin above his collarbone, tilting his head without thinking about it to give Blaine better access. Blaine was pressed into him everywhere, warm and solid and hips canting slightly, and Kurt could feel his body responding to Blaine's hands and his tongue and his heat, and then Blaine shifted slightly and _oh, he was definitely not the only one reacting. _And before Kurt could catch his breath, his fingers tightening around Blaine's curls, Blaine rocked his hips forward, making them both cry out and _God, he was so, so incredibly gay, _and Kurt knew he had said his last thought out loud when Blaine started laughing helplessly into his neck.

And he couldn't help it: he started laughing too, holding Blaine up as his boyfriend slumped against him, threading his arms around his waist and leaning back into the wall.

"We suck," Kurt declared, once they had calmed down.

Unfortunately, the quiet didn't last long: his (admittedly poor) word choice set Blaine off again.

Kurt threw his hands up dramatically. "I'm dating a twelve year old," he lamented theatrically, pretending to pout until Blaine stopped laughing and nipped at his bottom lip.

After that, he had better things to do instead.

* * *

><p>Blaine's mother did eventually come home, and Kurt had fixed his hair, straightened his collar, and turned up the charm by the time she made it from the kitchen to the foyer. Blaine agreed to come over for dinner on Sunday—and Kurt did feel bad about asking him in front of his mom, but it was just meeting his dad, and he'd been a little busy before Mrs. Anderson had walked in, so.<p>

When he left a few minutes later, Blaine discreetly blew him a kiss from the porch.

Kurt fell a little bit in love with him in that moment.

The roads were as icy as Blaine predicted, and it took nearly twice as long as it normally did for Kurt to drive home. The weather reporter on the radio was predicting that the freezing rain would turn into snow overnight and leave a couple of inches by morning, and Kurt didn't even have to answer his phone when it rang five miles from home to know that the caller was his dad, telling him not to wait for him to come home to eat, since he'd likely have to tow a couple of cars off the road after closing up for the night.

He did call back when he got home and offer to bring a plate of something by the shop, however. He wasn't a terrible son.

When Burt, predictably, turned him down, Kurt threw together a barbequed chicken sandwich and put it in the refrigerator for him to have when he came home. He didn't bother cooking for himself either; he was more cold and tired than hungry, and heating up a bowl of vegetable soup while making a pot of tea seemed like a reasonable compromise between legitimately making an effort and not eating at all.

The phone rang while Kurt was on his second cup of spicy black tea. Thinking it might be his dad, Kurt tossed his math book on the coffee table and grappled for the phone. "Hello?" he answered, slightly out of breath.

"Kurt, you sound terrible. Are you getting enough vitamin C? I'd hate for you to get sick at such a critical point in the school year."

Jesse. Kurt leaned back on the couch, pulling the blanket that had been keeping his legs warm up to his shoulders. "How would you know?" he asked dryly. "Are they making you go to classes at McKinley?"

Jesse laughed. "Surprisingly few," he admitted. "But there are a few colds going around here, and I know how you tend to overwork yourself near exam times."

Kurt sighed. "I'm going to pretend you're genuinely concerned for my health and leave it at that," he told Jesse, taking another sip of tea. "How's life in Lima?"

Jesse sighed back, more theatrically. "Terribly boring," he confided. "That's why I'm calling; I need someone to hang out with this weekend."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "What about Rachel?" he wanted to know.

"We have a date tomorrow night, but she's going somewhere with her Two Gay Dads on Saturday," Jesse explained. "Besides, I adore her, but I need some Male Bonding time. Or to hang out with you, either will do."

"Hilarious," Kurt retorted lazily, too comfortable in his blanket cocoon to bother getting worked up. "Figure out what you want to do on Saturday and pick me up at 7."

"Bossy," Jesse noted with a tone of approval. "I like it. See you then."

He hung up without saying goodbye. But then, he usually did.

* * *

><p><em>Next up: Blaine's Vocal debut, Male Bonding, and dinner with Burt.<em>


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14/?

Another long one… This took a few more days to write than I was expecting, so I apologize for the wait—but depending on Circumstances and Reasons, I might suddenly have far too much time to write around the new year. More to come on that later…

I don't own anything, but the holidays are coming up, so.

* * *

><p>Jesse arrived three minutes after 7:00 on Saturday night, his SUV leaving tire tracks in the inch of snow that had accumulated on Kurt's driveway over the course of the day.<p>

"I'd ask you if you've eaten yet," he called from Kurt's bathroom, where he was sampling Kurt's lotions and fixing his hair while Kurt finished getting ready, "but I've met you. Can I convince you to go out to dinner in less than thirty seconds, or should we just get snacks where we're going?"

Kurt rolled his eyes—a gesture lost on Jesse, since Kurt was sorting through his scarf collection in the back of his closet, trying to find the blue cashmere one that he'd gotten for his birthday. "You're the only one I know who can manage to sound concerned and inappropriately insensitive at the same time," he pointed out. "And where _are_ we going, anyway?"

Jesse laughed. "Somewhere fun," he promised. "And indoors, so never mind the scarf. Let's go, before it starts snowing again."

Frowning, Kurt gave up the search, grabbing his winter-weight piano key scarf instead and shutting the closet door behind him.

The boys called goodbye to Kurt's dad before leaving, bickering over what music to listen to on the drive as they fastened their seatbelts and Jesse started the car. In the end Jesse won, playing the trump card that they both knew Kurt couldn't refuse: a recording of his (their) future competition.

"It's actually a little eerie, how much she sounds like Shelby," Kurt mentioned after a minute, listening to Jesse's homemade cd. "Younger, obviously, and with less vocal training, but still."

"I thought so as well," Jesse agreed. "She even has some of the same mannerisms, which is slightly unnerving, given that they've never met."

He smiled at Kurt, eyes glowing an eerie red—arguably confirmation that Jesse was secretly of demonic origin, but realistically probably only a reflection of the traffic light they were stopped at. "I've been talking an awful lot about myself and _my_ relationship," he mentioned casually, as if it were in any way a typical admission on his part. "What about you? How did Blaine do on my duet yesterday?"

Kurt was far too used to Jesse's prying to be surprised by the forced segue. "Why ask me?" he wondered dryly. "Why not simply check the secret video footage you must be getting, since you're always so up to speed on what we're doing?"

Jesse gave him a pitying smile. "Kurt, please," he sighed, put upon. "You know perfectly well that security sweeps for bugs at random intervals. That would never reliably work."

That, actually, was true.

"He was incredible," Kurt informed Jesse. "Shelby hasn't said anything, but the piece has to be in contention for Regionals; she'd have to be crazy not to use it.

"Well," he amended, "Ryleigh was a little shrill. But she always is when she's nervous, and she got better towards the end of rehearsal."

Calling Blaine incredible was almost an understatement—whatever self-esteem or Daddy Issues Blaine had going on aside, Kurt couldn't fathom how he didn't see how preternaturally talented he was. But if Blaine's sweaty hands and shaking legs pre-rehearsal the day before were any indication, Blaine simply _didn't realize_ what an incredible vocalist he was; didn't realize that while he was worried his singing wouldn't measure up, Kurt was worried that people would resent him for being _too _good.

In the end, both of their fears were unfounded—Blaine performed beautifully from the start, cheeks flushing with pride and embarrassment when he made it to the end of the first flawless run-through and the entire choir burst into applause. Kurt was watching carefully, and was more than a little surprised when everyone's support of Blaine seemed to be wholly genuine—not because Blaine, of all people, didn't deserve it, but because Kurt was expecting at least a few people to be catty or jealous in their praise. Apparently, he had underestimated Blaine's charm and likability.

It would have thoroughly annoyed Kurt, had it been anyone but Blaine. Instead, he had done his best to be as supportive of Blaine as Blaine had been for him, earlier in the week. They'd gone out for coffee after rehearsal, and Kurt had bought him a chocolate chip brownie and rubbed the knots out of his back while listening to Blaine recount the afternoon from his perspective.

And if Kurt wasn't as attentive a listener as he could have been, it was hardly his fault—Blaine's shirt was really too thin, and his muscles were warm and distracting under Kurt's hands.

Jesse nodded along, apparently unsurprised that Blaine had done so well. "It would be the obvious choice for a competition number," he agreed amiably, turning the car onto another main road littered with shops and restaurants. "I wonder…"

He trailed off, making Kurt look at him sharply—Jesse only left sentences unfinished to prove a point. "What?" he asked warily, his hand tightening on his seatbelt reflexively.

Jesse shrugged. "How would you react if I let Blaine keep it?" he asked, voice as thoughtful as if he had just come up with the idea.

Kurt looked at him flatly. "Is that a real question?" he asked tonelessly, forcing himself not to think about it, lest he fall into one of Jesse's mind games.

Jesse smiled, looking pleased by Kurt's anti-reaction. "Let's just say it's hypothetical, for the moment," he decided, watching Kurt's expression hungrily.

Kurt frowned. "I don't even know what you're doing," he accused, willing himself not to get upset or angry. It was harder than he thought.

Jesse's mouth twisted. "You don't have to answer right now, if it's too uncomfortable for you," he offered, patting Kurt's arm. "Anyway, let's change the subject. We're here."

Kurt jumped slightly—lost in the conversation and his own thoughts, he hadn't immediately registered that the car had stopped. He looked out the window as Jesse pulled the keys out of the ignition. "Oh, you are not serious," he muttered, staring at the neon marquee. "Really, Jesse?"

Jesse's eyes widened innocently. "Something wrong, Kurt?" he asked, making a show of sounding concerned.

Kurt leveled a glare back. "I haven't been _bowling _since I was nine," he grumbled.

"Then think of how much wholesome entertainment you've been missing out on all this time," Jesse pointed out with a smile. "You'll enjoy it; it's a good form of low-impact exercise."

Kurt wasn't impressed. "They make you wear plastic shoes that they _spray out with Lysol_," he argued unhappily.

Jesse's smile grew. "I called ahead and made sure they didn't use any of the disinfectants that you're allergic to," he promised earnestly. "I would never put your health and safety at risk like that."

Kurt stared at him, waiting for the punchline.

Jesse didn't disappoint. "And anyways," he mentioned, "I stole some antihistamines and a jar of foot cream from your bathroom, just in case." He took the tub out of his coat pocket, waving it at Kurt just long enough for him to recognize it, before putting it back again.

Kurt sighed. "And with the other hand, he taketh away," he groaned, rolling his eyes. "Fine. I hate you. Let's go."

Jesse practically dragged him into the bowling alley.

* * *

><p>Kurt wouldn't admit it under pain of death, but once he had finally been coaxed into his bowling shoes ("I'm getting hives just thinking about these stupid things, Jesse. If I end up in the hospital over this, I'm strangling you with my IV line", "Kurt, if you don't start breathing normally, you're going to end up with so much scar tissue in your lungs that 'Happy Birthday' will be vocally challenging, and then where will you be?"), he did actually have a good time. Jesse had anticipated the distaste he'd show at having to stick his hands where hundreds of other people's sweaty, greasy fingers had been, and had come prepared with antiseptic and Q-tips. The game itself wasn't too bad, either—after a couple of embarrassingly poor throws, Kurt had gotten the hang of rolling the ball down the lane, managing to stay within a decent margin of Jesse's score.<p>

Jesse, though fairly skilled at knocking over at least half of the pins on the first try, was clearly no closer to being a bowling prodigy than Kurt was. Kurt found that it was actually kind of nice, watching Jesse be both mediocre at something and unconcerned about it.

He decided to appreciate the moment, since it would probably never happen again.

Jesse ordered them slices of pizza in between games, while Kurt was in the restroom. When it arrived three frames later, Kurt rolled his eyes in disgust.

"Pepperoni? Really?" he asked flatly, watching Jesse take a bite. "Do you have any idea what you just put in your mouth?"

Jesse shook his head. "Nothing worse than what you've had in yours," he countered. "Besides, Rachel says that the pizza here is actually vegan. I thought that might be enough to tempt your appetite."

Kurt made a face. "Pardon me for not believing that," he quipped, taking a sip of soda. "Give me your knife." Jesse handed him the plastic utensil and watched placidly as Kurt scraped the toppings off, gingerly taking a bite of the remaining bread and sauce.

Jesse smiled. "I forgot how socially maladjusted you can be sometimes," he mentioned fondly. "It's almost sweet."

Kurt didn't bat an eyelash at the insult. "You say potato, I say 'you'll get E. coli and die and I won't'," he retorted, taking another bite of pizza crust. Which was thankfully crunchy, if nothing else.

Jesse didn't seem to notice or care, finishing his slice quickly. "Let's finish the game," he suggested, crumpling his napkin and standing up. "Loser pays for shoe rental."

* * *

><p>Kurt ended up losing by about fifteen points or pins—he didn't know, or particularly care, which it was—and ended up forking over his money along with the ghastly shoes, while Jesse paid for the three games they had played. It was snowing outside again when they walked out to the parking lot, a fine layer of powder dusting the windows of the Range Rover.<p>

"Are you going to be in town for the holidays?" Jesse asked, once they had brushed the snow off the car and started the engine. "Please tell me you're going to be seeing Great Aunt Mildred."

Kurt groaned. "Unfortunately, yes," he admitted with a sigh. "At least she'll be staying with us this year, though, where we can lock the liquor cabinet and hide all of the cheap Russian perfume."

Jesse clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Kurt, is that any way to talk about your alcoholic, geriatric relatives?" he chided, eyes sparkling. "Mildred is a treasure."

Kurt scoffed. Jesse had met his great-aunt more than once, and had been so sickeningly charming to her that even Burt had been a little weirded out by him. Mildred, of course, had loved the 'precocious young man' and had insisted on him promising to visit every time she was in town.

"You come entertain her, then," Kurt suggested. "She won't spend half of her stay mistaking _you_ for your dead mother and asking horribly inappropriate questions about your parents' marriage."

"If only I could," Jesse replied with a regretful smile. "We're going skiing in Aspen for a week and a half, and won't be coming back until after the New Year." He sighed dramatically. "It's going to be incredibly difficult, being away from Rachel for so long, but the strength of our love will see us through."

Kurt's eyes narrowed. "All right, spill it," he demanded. "What is going on with you? What are you really doing with this girl?"

Jesse looked at him, all shock and hurt. "What are you talking about?" he wanted to know. "She's my girlfriend; I love her."

Kurt remained unfazed. "Do you? She's been your girlfriend for about twelve seconds," he pointed out.

Jesse stopped at a red light. "Are you insinuating that I have an ulterior motive in this relationship?" he asked. "Kurt, I'm surprised at you; you're usually such a romantic."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "You'll have to pardon my skepticism," he said dryly. "It's just that I've _met_ you. You're going to end up hurting this girl sooner or later, and I can't understand why Shelby is letting this happen."

Jesse's eyes were wide. "Is it so impossible to believe that maybe I've actually fallen in love?" he asked, schooling his features into something approaching a philosophical expression. "I've never felt this way before, Kurt."

Kurt had no idea where the sudden anger welling up in him had come from, but it was definitely there. "Will you stop it?" he seethed. "You don't 'feel that way'—I don't even know if you feel _any _way. You're so _theatrical_; it's like you don't even realize that other people aren't _like you_, that they have feelings and emotions and fall in love and get hurt. And you just toy with it, and don't even care."

Jesse looked shocked at Kurt's outburst. Ironically, at least for Kurt, the expression seemed to be genuine for once.

"Tell me something real about her," Kurt said bitterly. "Not something from the Storybook Romance in your head. Something that's _real._"

"You tell me something first," Jesse countered swiftly. "Has he told you yet?"

Kurt, still upset from earlier, didn't follow. "What are you talking about?" he asked tiredly.

Jesse's mouth twisted as he turned the car onto Kurt's street. "Your boyfriend," he clarified. "He hasn't told you why he transferred schools yet, has he?"

Kurt sighed, suddenly feeling too drained to get angry again. "Don't make this about me," he ordered, unable to conjure up any of the firmness he'd had before. "And leave Blaine out of it."

"I'm not trying to be mean," Jesse argued, "I'm really not. I just hate seeing you like this—you're upset and taking it out on me, don't deny it. Which is fine; it's what you do, and I can handle it. But it's clearly symptomatic of a larger problem, and it's got to sting that Blaine doesn't trust you enough to tell you about what happened that night at the dance."

Kurt's head, which had been resting in his hands, snapped up in alarm. "What are you—" he started feverishly, before forcing himself to calm down. "What do you know about that?" he demanded, his breathing a little steadier.

Jesse was watching him neutrally. "Open the glove compartment," he suggested, nodding at it without breaking eye contact. Kurt paused for a moment, unsure, before warily reaching forward and fumbling with the latch.

Inside was a thick manila envelope, Blaine's name written neatly across the center in Jesse's handwriting.

"There was an incident at Aquinas Institute, about two weeks before Blaine arrived at Carmel," Jesse explained, as Kurt stared at the envelope. "No names were reported in the papers, obviously, since all the students involved were minors, but it's pretty obvious who they're talking about. At least in retrospect."

Kurt's mouth was dry. "Sarabeth's dad?" he asked hoarsely.

Jesse laughed quietly. "Google," he replied. "Honestly, Kurt. Don't make everything harder than it needs to be."

Kurt shook his head, vaguely aware that his hands were wrinkling the envelope. "I don't want this," he said slowly, looking out the windshield at his house, porch lights twinkling. "I don't want to read them."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jesse shrugged. "I'm not saying you should," he said soothingly. "I'm just saying that you should hang onto them. There might come a point when _not _knowing is worse than knowing."

Leaning forward slightly, Jesse hit a tab to the left of the steering wheel, unlocking the car doors with an audible_ click_. "Have a nice night, Kurt," he offered calmly. "Sleep well."

* * *

><p>Later that night, Kurt sat cross-legged on his bed, hands wrapped around a mug of tea.<p>

The envelope sat in front of him, unopened.

He didn't know what to do. The answer seemed like it ought to be obvious—don't open it—but the more Kurt thought about it, the less black and white the situation became. Arguments for each course of action—reading them, not reading them, calling Blaine and asking him what he wanted Kurt to do, calling Jesse and bitching him out for meddling in everything and putting him in this position—kept popping up in his head, making everything more and more confusing. Finally (and feeling a bit like a twelve year old girl) he carefully placed the mug on his nightstand and grabbed a notebook.

He started with the Pros.

_1. If I know what happened, I can help him/avoid saying something stupid or insensitive._

That was big one. Even without knowing what had happened, Kurt made a point of not mentioning Blaine's life pre-Carmel unless Blaine brought it up first, and hadn't said anything to him about the school's Winter Ball coming up in January, even though he _really _wanted to see Blaine in formalwear. But walking on eggshells would be a lot easier if he could see where they were, and Kurt could only do so much to help Blaine move past everything without a better idea of what he was dealing with.

_2. He won't ever have to talk about it if he doesn't want to._

While that would have been true anyway, Kurt knew himself; knew that eventually his curiosity would get the better of him, and he'd start pushing Blaine, consciously or unconsciously, for answers. And Blaine would feel pressured or guilty if he wasn't ready to give them, and the situation would be precarious and unhelpful.

_3. Jesse already knows, which means that other people might already know too._

In Kurt's mind, that point related to the first two—nobody else at Carmel knew Blaine as well as he did, or would be as carefully concerned with Blaine's emotional wellbeing as he was. Someone might ask him something about Aquinas, or start talking about the dance (his or theirs), or say something upsetting without realizing how insensitive they were being. If Kurt knew what to watch out for, he'd be better able to shield Blaine from any fallout.

Kurt hesitated, contemplating the potential number 4: _I just need to know. _

In the end, he put it on the list—it wasn't pretty and he definitely wasn't proud of it, but it was true, and if he couldn't be honest with himself, he had bigger problems than whether or not Blaine ever told him the whole story.

Feeling slightly sick to his stomach at his own theoretical selfishness, Kurt drew a line down the center of the paper and started the Cons column:

_1. Invasion of his privacy._

And it really would be, Kurt knew. Even if he read the articles Jesse had given him with the purist of intentions, it didn't change the fact that Blaine hadn't told him about leaving his old school yet. Blaine had never explicitly said to Kurt that he didn't _want _him to know about it, but he was also too sweet to imagine that anyone would go prying into his background—it wouldn't have even occurred to him that Kurt would actively try to find out about his past in any other way than directly asking him, even if the incident had been reported in the newspapers.

_2. I might slip and say something by accident._

That wasn't likely, given how good Kurt was at keeping his mouth shut when necessary, but was still a horrible possibility worth noting—Kurt didn't even want to _picture_ the look on Blaine's face if Kurt said something to betray the fact that he'd gone behind Blaine's back like that, let alone actually cause it.

Which brought him to number 3:

_Blaine would never trust me again if I read them and didn't say anything._

And that was what it came down to—Blaine's trust. Kurt had been so scared when he thought he might have lost it over Jesse. He wasn't going to risk losing it again, not so soon, and especially not over something so deeply personal to Blaine.

Mind made up, Kurt tore the page out of his notebook, thoroughly crumpling it up before tossing it in the garbage. The envelope went unopened into his desk, placed carefully in the third drawer from the top.

When Blaine decided he was ready to talk about the incident, then and only then would Kurt read Jesse's articles. Until then, he could wait.

* * *

><p>Burt looked disbelievingly at the defrosting packages in the sink on Sunday morning. "We're having steak?" he asked Kurt, who was picking at his soft-boiled eggs, the newspaper spread open on the table. "Did you crash the Navigator or fail a class, or something?"<p>

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Blaine's coming over for dinner tonight," he reminded his dad.

Burt scoffed. "I've spent 16 years raising you, and I have to beg for red meat," he grumbled. "You date this kid for a month…"

Kurt flipped the page idly. "Five weeks," he corrected. "And the steak may or may not be a bribe, to ensure your good behavior this evening."

Burt sat down across from him, cutting into his own scrambled eggs. "If he's a good kid, he's got nothing to worry about," he pointed out ominously.

Kurt didn't look up from the article he was skimming. "Good to know," he replied. "And if you're a good host and don't actively try to scare away my boyfriend, you don't have to worry about me pouring all the beer down the sink, or calling the cable company to cancel the Sports network package."

* * *

><p>If the steak was going to be ready in time for dinner, it had to go into the oven by 5:00. With that in mind, Kurt took his own car to the garage that morning, starting his shift at the same time as Burt so that he could clock out at 4:30. The car gods were smiling down on him that day—while he had plenty of repairs to keep him busy (and the shop's finances in the black), there were no horrible Jelly Donut Incidents, and he managed to make it through his entire shift without getting anything in his hair, which considerably sped up his routine once he drove home that afternoon.<p>

Which was particularly fortunate for him, since Blaine, who was due to arrive at 6:30, ended up ringing the doorbell more than fifteen minutes early.

"I built in some extra time, in case there was a line at the bakery or the gas station," he explained, handing over a white paper box from Angelina's, the only decent bakery within 50 miles. "There wasn't."

Kurt glanced around furtively for his dad, before leaning in and kissing Blaine on the cheek. "You look handsome," he noted, eyeing Blaine's dark button-down shirt and grey slacks with approval. "I wouldn't object to seeing you in a tie more often."

Blaine smiled weakly. "I almost didn't wear it," he admitted. "I was afraid it might make it too easy for your dad to strangle me."

Kurt rolled his eyes fondly. "He's not going to strangle you," he promised, hanging Blaine's coat in the closet before leading the way into the kitchen. "Trust me—if he wanted to kill you, he'd be much more creative than that."

Kurt's offhanded comment was met with two separate choking sounds—Blaine out of distress, and Burt, who had chosen that moment to enter the kitchen from the living room, in an attempt to stifle his laughter.

"I thought the whole point was to _not _scare the kid," he pointed out, adjusting his baseball cap before taking a good look at Blaine. "I thought he was trying to protect you," he told Blaine. "Didn't know he was planning on doing it himself."

Blaine smiled shakily. "It might have caught me a little off guard as well, sir," he admitted frankly, gesturing at his throat.

Burt scoffed. "None of that 'sir' stuff," he told Blaine, "you coming over means I get steak for dinner. That's a good enough reason as any for me to get to know you a little better, so you might as well call me Burt."

Kurt smiled.

* * *

><p>Despite Blaine's initial nerves, dinner went more smoothly that Kurt could have hoped. Whether mollified by the steak or merely humoring Kurt, Burt was on his best behavior—making a point to include Blaine in the conversation without asking him anything intrusive, not mentioning any of his various power tools or other potential instruments of violence, etc. Pleased by his efforts, Kurt turned a blind eye when his dad left half of his spinach salad on the plate, opting instead for a second helping of steak.<p>

Blaine himself gave an Oscar-worthy performance, once Kurt managed to convince him that his dad had no intention of threatening his life over the dinner table. He complimented Kurt's cooking (in particular the marinade, which Kurt had mixed himself and was proud of), he discussed football and television preferences with Burt, and his conversational skill and manners were so impeccable that more than once, Kurt had to suppress the urge to ask Blaine where he'd gone to Charm School.

In fact, the only problematic moment during the meal came toward the end of the evening, after Kurt had finally let his guard down and started to relax.

The dessert Blaine had brought turned out to be a raspberry tart, and Kurt eagerly cut three generously-sized pieces and eased them onto smaller dessert plates while his dad and Blaine compared first impressions of Shelby and Dakota Stanley (Blaine laughing at his dad's earnest description of Dakota as "a freaking lunatic that's a few fries short of a Happy Meal"). Blaine told Burt a little about his first time actually _meeting_ him, and how Jesse had warned him not to get within five feet of Dakota's platform if he valued his hearing.

Burt laughed appreciatively. "Sounds about right," he agreed. "So, did you go bowling with him last night then too, or was it just Kurt and Jesse?"

Kurt, feeling the sudden tension in the room, nearly sliced off his finger—quietly, thankfully. He quickly scooped up the plates and turned around, walking back to the dinner table as fast as he could without making it _look _like he was hurrying. He dropped a dessert fork on the table in front of Blaine, who was visibly struggling to come up with some sort of casual answer. "It was just us, Dad," he cut in, handing Burt his plate and sitting back down. He looked at Blaine, knowing that his boyfriend was definitely getting the wrong idea about the night before, and wanting to clear it up before Blaine started thinking the worst. "Jesse's having girl trouble, and he needed someone to talk it through with."

Burt snorted, oblivious to the way that Blaine was looking at Kurt—both grateful for the conversational save, and blindsided by the new information. "Since when are you qualified to give girl advice?" he wanted to know.

Kurt tore his eyes away from Blaine, whose gaze had dropped resolutely down to his dessert, in order to scowl at his dad. "I'm friends with plenty of girls, thank you," he quipped, stabbing into his tart with a fork. "More than you were friends with in high school—tell Blaine about the time Uncle John tried to set you up with the girl who wrote for the school paper."

The story served the dual purpose of ending the evening on a high note for Burt—it really was hilarious, and his dad loved telling it—and carrying the conversation for the remainder of the meal. Blaine nodded and reacted in all the right places, appeasing Kurt's dad despite his dull eyes and seemingly renewed insecurities, and when Burt shook his hand before shutting himself into his home office to work, it was obvious that Blaine had made the favorable second impression that Kurt had been hoping for.

"He likes you," Kurt assured Blaine, after hearing the telltale creak of the office door closing.

Blaine was leaning against the counter, utterly spent. "I'm glad," he replied quietly, rubbing a hand over his eyes tiredly. "I like him too."

They were quiet for a moment.

Kurt broke the silence. "Are we going to talk about this?" he asked, wrapping his arms around his waist nervously as he watched Blaine, whose eyes were still closed.

Blaine ignored the question, sort of. "Does he know that you and Jesse used to be…" he wanted to know, blinking slowly and still avoiding Kurt's gaze.

Kurt frowned, not exactly sure why Blaine was asking. "No, he doesn't," he answered honestly. "Does that matter?"

Blaine shook his head. "No. You're right, it shouldn't; you guys are just friends now, so."

Kurt's frown deepened.

Before he could say anything, Blaine let out a shaky laugh. "I'm being stupid, I know. I'm sorry. You obviously don't need my permission to see your friends, and Jesse is one of your friends. It's fine. Can I help with the dishes?"

Kurt was about to argue that clearly it _wasn't _fine, that Blaine was noticeably unnerved by the idea of him and Jesse spending time alone together, but hesitated when Blaine turned to the sink and rolled up his sleeves. It was clear that Blaine didn't really want to discuss it, and while they definitely needed to, Kurt could give him ten minutes while they cleaned up the kitchen.

He needed the time to sort through his thoughts, in any case; they were definitely torn. On the one hand, he sort of agreed with Blaine: Kurt didn't need permission, Blaine's or anyone else's, to spend time with whomever he wanted. And that while _stupid_ probably wouldn't have been the word Kurt would have chosen, he had made it abundantly clear, more than once, that he and Jesse were over. Had _been _over for a long time. If Blaine was on edge about them spending time together, then at least some part of him didn't trust that Kurt was being honest—and that stung. A lot.

On the other hand, Kurt knew he had helped create some of those insecurities in the first place, by not telling Blaine about their past relationship. While he had been planning on mentioning seeing Jesse that weekend to Blaine—in a deliberately casual manner, perfectly designed to show Blaine that he wasn't keeping secrets or in any way hung up on the past—it was his own bad luck that Burt had mentioned it first.

And while part of him bristled at the idea of having to justify his behavior to anyone when he hadn't done anything wrong by going bowling with Jesse, he couldn't help but think about how he would have reacted if Blaine was the one with a handsome, manipulative ex.

Given that Kurt's response probably would have involved a flamethrower, Blaine's doubts were relatively tame and understandable.

Kurt glanced at Blaine as he passed over a freshly washed dinner plate. Blaine's forehead was wrinkled in concentration as he worked meticulously, drying each dish or utensil thoroughly before setting it carefully on the counter.

Kurt felt his own expression soften, watching Blaine work. Maybe he shouldn't have to give up any of his autonomy in order to ease Blaine's fears. But in the end, maybe it was a small price to pay in order to make Blaine happy.

Or at the very least, to avoid making him as conflicted and _un_happy as he was now, even if he was pretending to be fine.

Passing over the last of the forks, Kurt turned off the water and dried his hands on a dishtowel, leaning sideways against the sink to watch Blaine more blatantly as he scrubbed the utensil dry and placed it with the others. When he was finished, Kurt took the wet towel from him and offered him the dry one he had been holding.

"Can I show you something?" he asked, smiling gently.

Blaine looked at him with surprise, but nodded. "All right," he agreed, wiping his hands on the towel and setting it on the counter with the dishes. "Where…"

"My room," Kurt answered, holding out his hand. Blaine took it without hesitation.

He laughed when he caught Blaine's confused expression, as he opened the basement door. "My room is down here," he explained, leading Blaine down the steps. "It's pretty well soundproofed, so I can practice whenever I want without bothering my dad. Plus," he confided, "I'm told I'm somewhat difficult to share a bathroom with. I prefer to think of it as having exemplary hygiene, but whatever gets me my own bathtub is fine by me."

Kurt flipped on the light switch at the bottom of the stairs, watching as Blaine looked around his room for the first time. He had straightened up his desk—the only thing in his room that ever got _truly _messy; natural fastidiousness was a gift—hoping that Blaine might come downstairs at some point in the evening, and he was glad he had: the curious expression on Blaine's face was rapidly turning into approval.

"This isn't what I pictured your room looking like at all," Blaine admitted, turning around slowly while he admired the space. "But it's very _you_. I like it."

Kurt suppressed his smile a bit, trying to hide how disproportionately pleased he was by the praise. "I've been meaning to paint for ages," he disclosed modestly, looking around at the sage green walls. "White would really maximize the natural lighting from the windows. I just never seem to have the time."

Blaine wandered over to Kurt's dresser, taking a closer look at the cluster of pictures scattered artfully across the surface. "I could help sometime, if you want," he offered, picking up a wooden frame that Kurt knew held a picture from his 16th birthday, out on the lake. Blaine would recognize most of the people in the picture, he realized—everyone at the party went to Carmel, and most of the people in that particular photo were in VA as well.

He smiled. "Don't make promises like that unless you mean it," he warned. "Because I'll conscript your services one of these days, and you won't be able to back out of it."

Blaine looked up from the picture frame with his own small smile. "I wouldn't try," he promised.

Kurt nodded. "Good," he said decisively. "Consider yourself contractually obligated, as of this moment."

They stared at each other for a moment, the space between them shifting to something more serious. Kurt paused, then nodded towards his bed. "Go ahead and sit down," he offered quietly.

When Blaine was seated, leaning against the headboard and watching Kurt with an inscrutable look on his face, Kurt sat down at his desk, a few feet away. "I said I had something to show you," he reminded Blaine, who nodded back.

Opening the second drawer and pushing a couple of folders aside, Kurt quickly found what he was looking for. Peeling them off the wood grain at the bottom of the drawer, he offered them to Blaine with a soft smile.

"Here."

Blaine took the post-it notes from Kurt's outstretched hand, instantly recognizing their significance. "Are these the notes from my first week at school?" he asked, looking at them with something approaching awe.

Kurt nodded silently.

"Oh, wow," Blaine whistled softly, carefully peeling apart the notes and reading them individually. "Kurt, I…"

He shook his head. "I can't believe you saved these," he said disbelievingly.

Kurt reached over and picked up one of the notes. _Those cookies at your house were incredible, by the way, _Blaine's handwriting had fervently gushed. _If I knew how to bake without destroying the kitchen, I'd ask for the recipe._

"Of course I did," Kurt mused absently, looking at his own reply, written in flourish-heavy script. "They were ours."

Blaine's cheeks turned slightly pink. "I know," he agreed. "I just meant that…well, we weren't dating, then. You saved them, even though we weren't even close to getting together yet."

Kurt shrugged loosely. "I had high hopes for you. I meant it, when I told you that I knew how I felt about you way before we kissed."

Blaine's cheeks darkened further.

Kurt stared at him, unblinking. "I would choose you, you know," he told Blaine, voice quiet but sure. "If you made me pick between you and one of my friends. I would choose you."

Blaine's eyes were soft and wide. "Kurt, I…" he started, before exhaling sharply, running his hands through his hair. "I wouldn't ask you to do that," he promised.

Kurt smiled sadly. "I don't want you to say that unless you really mean it," he insisted. "I saw the look on your face when Dad mentioned Jesse. I want to be able to see my friends without having to check in with you first, but I don't want you to pretend you're okay with something if you're really not."

Blaine bit his lip, and Kurt sat up straighter in his chair. "Is that something I need to do? Ask you ahead of time?" he pressed, looking directly at Blaine. "Because I need to know where you are on this."

Blaine shook his head. "No. You shouldn't have to do that," he sighed. "That's not fair to you."

Kurt frowned. "Then what do you need from me?" he wanted to know, wincing a bit when his voice came out pitchier than usual. "Because I hate making you unhappy, and I need to know what you want me to do next time so that I don't mess it up again."

Blaine's eyes widened. "No, Kurt," he protested, "you didn't do anything wrong, all right? This is me, it's…I don't know. I don't know why I reacted like that, but it's not your fault."

He reached over, grabbing Kurt's hand and holding it between both of his. "Please don't get upset," he pleaded gently. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Kurt."

It wasn't until Blaine pointed it out that Kurt realized that he actually _was _getting upset: an uncomfortable prickling sensation had built up behind his eyes, and his breathing was faster and shakier than normal.

He gripped Blaine's hand, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. Blaine smiled hesitantly in return, holding his arms out in a silent invitation. Wordlessly, Kurt climbed up onto the bed and curled up on his side, letting Blaine stretch out on the mattress next to him and wrap him up in a hug from behind. Instinctively, he reached for Blaine's hand, lacing their fingers together and tightening Blaine's arm around his chest.

It was strange how much better being held made him feel.

Blaine nuzzled the back of his neck. "I'm sorry," he murmured into Kurt's hair, kissing him softly. "I trust you, and you don't have to do anything differently, okay? I didn't mean to upset you."

"I don't care about that," Kurt admitted. "I just want you to be happy."

"You make me happy," Blaine protested, holding Kurt even tighter.

Kurt sighed. "Except when I don't," he pointed out. "What upset you the most, tonight?"

He felt Blaine tense up behind him. Not able to reach back with either of his hands, Kurt poked Blaine's foot with his toe to get his attention. "I won't get mad," he promised. "Just tell me."

Blaine pulled their intertwined hands over Kurt's chest, holding them over his heart. "Thinking I might lose you," he admitted. "I know you told me not to, and I know nothing's going on between you and Jesse. I really do know that, Kurt. It's just…"

He exhaled sharply, breath warm on Kurt's neck. "I don't think you realize how scary the idea of you leaving really is," he finished quietly.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Forgetting Evaluations so quickly, are we?" he quipped dryly, turning his head to the side so that his cheek brushed against Blaine's lips. Blaine took advantage of their proximity, leaning in slightly to kiss Kurt's cheek. Kurt hummed encouragingly, and felt Blaine smiling into his skin. Letting go of Kurt's hand and threading it through his hair instead, Blaine pressed another kiss to Kurt's temple, before working his way back down the side of Kurt's face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, mouthing gently at Kurt's neck. "I'm sorry I made you feel like that."

With extreme difficulty—Blaine's tongue felt _really_ good, he could write _novels _about that tongue—Kurt rolled himself over in Blaine's arms so that they were facing each other.

"You're not going to lose me," he promised solemnly. "I'm not leaving you, okay? If I do something or say something to make you think that, you need to tell me, so I can remind you how wrong you are."

Blaine's fingers were still in his hair. "I promise," he murmured, stroking the loose strands gently before running his hand down Kurt's back. "Just say it again."

"I'm not leaving you," Kurt repeated. "I'm not letting go of you."

Eyes shining with unshed tears, Blaine surged forward, capturing Kurt's mouth with his own. It was frenzied and desperate from the start, and Kurt found himself moaning wantonly as Blaine's fingernails dug into his back. Blaine pressed further into Kurt's open mouth, rolling forward until Kurt was on his back, Blaine's torso pinning him to the bed.

Kurt wrapped his hand around the back of Blaine's neck, pulling him in as close as he could without hurting him. He fought the urge to drag Blaine completely on top of him, to line up their hips and tangle their legs together and just _move_ until they were both completely undone. Blaine wasn't ready for that, he _knew _Blaine wasn't ready for that, but the thought of Blaine writhing and shuddering on top of him made him gasp in pleasure, running his hands over Blaine's back before clutching at him harder.

"I'm not going anywhere," he panted against Blaine's mouth, catching his breath before Blaine licked into him again. "You're mine."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15/? Another long wait; another long chapter. I sense a theme. Really though, the biggest reason this took so long was the amount of time I spent working on my Black Friday one shot, _Uninvited Criticisms. _If you like your Klaine fluffier than what I've been writing here, go forth and conquer (just don't cut Kurt in line, or he'll slit your throat with a credit card).

An Important Note: So far, this story has been written as a Single Point of Departure fic—everything that deviates from canon is somehow related to Kurt's presence at Carmel or absence from McKinley. However, in this chapter, an event takes place that both directly contradicts canon, and has nothing to do with Kurt. I didn't realize it until I was halfway done with the scene, and when I did, I liked it too much to cut it out. So, I'm sorry. You're all pretty.

**Also!** You may have noticed that I've bumped up the rating from T to M, or from R to NC-17, for you LJ/Tumblr folks. There's…a good reason for that, starting this chapter. Please don't throw things at me when you get there.

I don't even own cookie cutters, much less Glee. Another one for the Wish List.

* * *

><p>Dr. Ramirez had brown eyes behind her black-framed glasses, and a comfortable white couch that Blaine was allowed to put his feet on, as long as he took his shoes off first. She had mentioned it offhandedly at his intake appointment, but Blaine didn't actually attempt it until halfway through his second real session, when the muscle in his leg that he'd pulled during rehearsal needed a softer surface to rest on. It had been awkward at first, curling up on someone else's furniture while talking about his home life, but Blaine had quickly gotten used to it. Even with explicit permission, it sort of felt like breaking all the rules—or, at least, violating about half a dozen etiquette guidelines earnestly taught by one of the novices at Aquinas back in 7th grade.<p>

Blaine kind of liked it.

"So, Blaine, how was school this week?" Dr. Ramirez wanted to know, crossing her legs and leaning back in her armchair.

Blaine mirrored her posture cautiously—he had changed clothes after rehearsal, but was very conscious of his sweaty hair. "It was fine," he answered neutrally. "I had a math test today, but I think I did all right on it. It's Kurt's best subject, so he's been helping me study before rehearsals."

Dr. Ramirez nodded. "Has it been difficult, balancing school and rehearsals?" she asked, making a note on the legal pad to her left. "Vocal Adrenaline sounds like quite the time commitment."

Blaine stifled the urge to laugh at her massive understatement. "At first, I guess," he admitted, "but I was behind in all my classes, too, since the curriculum at Carmel is a little more advanced. Now that I'm caught up and used to the rehearsal schedule, it's easier. I mean, it's still a lot, but not too much, I don't think."

"You're certainly one of the busiest students I work with, I don't mind telling you that," Dr. Ramirez told him, smiling. She tilted her head slightly, the way that Kurt often did right before asking something personal. "I wonder," she mused, "what would 'too much' look like to you?"

Blaine shifted slightly in his seat. "I don't know," he confessed, picking absently at a loose thread on his jeans. "I just know that I'm not there; not yet."

Dr. Ramirez nodded. "Something to think about for next time, maybe," she suggested. "And how about your life outside of rehearsals? Have you done anything social this week? I know you said last week that you don't really like talking on the phone, but did you go out at all, talk to anyone online?"

Blaine started to shake his head, then paused. "Not exactly," he said slowly. "But…I have plans. For Sunday."

He'd been waiting at the pharmacy on Tuesday night, texting Kurt while his prescriptions were filled, when he'd heard the slightly familiar voice:

"_Blaine, is that you?" Wes asked, smiling at Blaine when he looked up._

_Blaine smiled back at Wes, who was impeccably groomed and still in his blazer, clutching his phone a little bit tighter. "Hi Wes, how are you?" he'd asked automatically, both glad to see him and dreading the moment when Wes would ask what he was doing there._

_The moment never came. "I'm doing well, and yourself? I trust you're keeping busy, with the holidays coming up."_

_Blaine confirmed it and asked about Wes's vacation plans, and they'd made polite conversation for another couple of minutes before Wes tilted his head to the side, studying Blaine. "I know this is an unusual request," he acknowledged, "but the Warblers are going to be performing at the mall in Westerville this Sunday, at 2:30. If you're not busy, would you like to join us?"_

_Blaine, surprised and gratified by the request, had quickly agreed, giving Wes his contact information so that he could send Blaine the details._

_In the end, Wes had gone on with his shopping, leaving Blaine blessedly, thankfully alone when the pharmacist called his name. There were some things you just didn't tell people who were still sort of strangers, no matter how nice they were._

Dr. Ramirez made another note. "That's terrific, Blaine, that you're making connections outside of your vocal group," she praised.

"Even if it's with a different vocal group?" Blaine asked slyly, making Dr. Ramirez laugh.

"Even then," she agreed with a smile, before changing topics somewhat. "Now, I know last week, you'd mentioned having a bit of a conflict with Kurt over the weekend," she began, tone carefully neutral. "How have things been with him, besides the math?"

Blaine smiled down at his hands, now loosely intertwined in his lap. "Things with Kurt are good," he confirmed. "Great, actually. He's…"

He trailed off. "This is going to sound stupid," he sighed.

Dr. Ramirez arched an eyebrow.

"I know I don't really have anyone else to compare him to, but sometimes it feels like he's perfect for me," Blaine explained, feeling uncomfortably inarticulate, but still unable to keep the corners of his mouth from creeping up into a smile. "Like he knows exactly what to say and do, no matter how I'm feeling or what we're talking about. And he doesn't even have to think about it; he just _does _it, and its right."

Dr. Ramirez nodded. "That does sound perfect," she noted in an impartial tone, waiting for him to continue.

He did. "I'm trying not to get in over my head, at least not right away," he admitted. "But it's hard. He's one of the only people I have right now that makes me feel _good_, and he's so careful with me."

Dr. Ramirez looked at him, toying absently with her pen. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" she wanted to know.

Blaine frowned, not sure how to answer.

"It can be both, if that's how you feel," she added. "You just didn't sound quite as enthused as you did before, and I'm curious what him being careful with you means to you, and how you feel about it."

Blaine swallowed nervously. "Can I have a minute to think about that?" he asked awkwardly.

"Of course," Dr. Ramirez answered. Seeming to pick up on Blaine's discomfort, she smiled gently at him. "I'm not trying to trick you into answering, or saying anything you don't want to say," she promised. "Take whatever time you need."

Drawing his—shoeless—feet up on the couch, Blaine thought about the question. About Kurt—how Kurt almost never pressed him to talk about anything Blaine gave the slightest indication he didn't want to discuss. How big and soft his eyes would get sometimes, watching Blaine with a mixture of emotions Blaine wasn't sure he could name; how gentle his hands were whenever he touched Blaine, never gripping or bruising or pulling unless Blaine's did first.

How Kurt's odd, almost _vulnerable_, gentleness had drawn Blaine in, nearly from the start.

"I like that he's careful," Blaine said slowly, finally. "I like that he cares enough to be careful. Even if I didn't need it, I'd probably still like the feeling behind it."

He sighed, looking back down. "I guess I just wish I didn't need it," he admitted. "I get upset over stupid things, and half the time I can't even explain _why _to him, and he's so good about being whatever I need, but it has to be hard on him. I don't want him to have to worry about upsetting me all the time—and he does; I've told him he doesn't have to, but I _know_ he does. I'd probably be the same way, if our situations were reversed."

He quirked his mouth self-deprecatingly, a little embarrassed by his sudden, unexpected rambling. "That wasn't a very clear answer, was it?" he asked ruefully.

Dr. Ramirez looked thoughtful. "Maybe not," she allowed. "But it was a complicated question; it deserves a complicated answer, don't you think?"

Blaine shrugged.

She adjusted her glasses. "I did notice, though, that when you were talking about wishing you didn't need such carefulness from Kurt, you talked about it from his perspective; why it must be difficult for _him_."

Blaine sat up a little straighter in his seat, eyeing her warily.

Dr. Ramirez didn't react. "I just wonder if maybe your underlining concern is about _Kurt's _awareness of your need for extra emotional support right now, and not just your wish to get back to a more comfortable space, mentally," she suggested.

Blaine…had no idea how to even begin thinking about that. "Can't it be both?" he asked, uneasy with the turn in the conversation.

Dr. Ramirez blinked. "It can absolutely be both, if that's how you feel," she agreed. "And it's not necessarily a bad thing, as long as your desire to heal from your experiences isn't solely tied to your relationship, and how you believe others see you. At least some of it has to be for you."

She eyed the clock, before looking back at him. "That being said, being perceived as vulnerable, especially in a romantic relationship, can be a very difficult thing, Blaine," she said gently. "I'd say it's probably one of the biggest barriers we have, in communicating with one another, and it sounds like something you've been struggling with lately."

She shifted slightly in her seat. "Would talking a little bit about that, the ways you feel like your situation affects the dynamics of your relationship with Kurt, be something you'd feel comfortable bringing up in Group?" she asked, looking more curious than anything.

That Blaine knew the answer to. "No," he said assertively, shaking his head. "Not without talking to Kurt, first—I told him I wouldn't talk about him in Group, when I asked if I could tell you about him."

Dr. Ramirez nodded. "And there's obviously no time for that today," she commented lightly.

Blaine glanced at his watch. She was right—his appointment was nearly over, and group therapy began ten minutes after that.

"Do you think it's something you'll ask him in the future, or is that something you'd rather revisit down the line?" Dr. Ramirez wanted to know.

Blaine shrugged—and God, he was doing a lot of that today_. _"I don't—no. I don't know," he answered, running a hand through his hair in a way that would make Kurt roll his eyes. "I know everything we say is supposed to be confidential, but…my parents don't know that Kurt's my boyfriend, yet. I'd want to tell them first, just in case."

Dr. Ramirez nodded thoughtfully, writing something down. "Can I ask—who does know about your relationship with Kurt, besides his father?" she wondered. "Is there anyone in your day to day life that you can talk to about him, even if it's nothing as serious as what we've been discussing?"

"People at school know," Blaine replied. "Kurt's really popular at Carmel, so people just sort of _know_ things like who he's dating. And it's not like we've made a point of hiding our relationship, even if I don't really talk to anyone about it."

"Do you feel like you _could_ talk to someone at school about it, or would that be too uncomfortable for you?" Dr. Ramirez prompted gently.

Blaine thought about it. "It's not that it would make me uncomfortable," he said slowly. "I mean, I would be, definitely. But…the people I know best at Carmel are all in Vocal Adrenaline, and they've known Kurt longer than they've known me," he explained. "It's not like I think they'd go running to tell Kurt anything I said, but…I guess I don't think that's fair to anyone, really."

Dr. Ramirez nodded, sitting back in her seat. "I can see how that might be troublesome," she acknowledged. "So here's what I'd like from you for next time, Blaine. I'd like for you to think about the people in your life, and try to identify one or two people that you'd feel comfortable talking to about Kurt; people that are _yours_, more so than his. You don't have to say anything to them yet, if you don't feel ready—just figure out who those people might be."

Blaine nodded, and Dr. Ramirez smiled at him. "And it's not all about problems and concerns, Blaine," she added. "When you're happy, it's natural to want to share that happiness with others. And it sounds like your relationship with Kurt is a fairly significant source of happiness for you, these days."

She glanced at the clock again. "We have another minute or two before we have to head downstairs for Group," she told Blaine, looking at him with searching eyes—which, strangely, didn't make Blaine feel nearly as uncomfortable as he would have thought. "Is there anything else you want to touch on, before we finish up?"

Blaine shook his head. "I think I have enough to think about for now," he admitted with a small smile.

Dr. Ramirez smiled in return. "True," she agreed. "In that case—I'm going to mention this downstairs as well, but since it affects you individually, I'll tell you first: you know next Thursday is Christmas Eve, and the offices will be closed."

Blaine nodded. "And the Thursday after that is New Year's Eve, so my appointment is scheduled for Wednesday, instead," he replied.

"That's right," she confirmed. "But since I won't be seeing you for nearly two weeks, and Group won't be meeting again until January, I want to remind you that you have the number for our answering service, and that you can call it any time, if you think you need support. They'll redirect you to an appropriate hotline, if you need someone to talk to, or in a genuine emergency, they'll get in contact with me, or help you call 911 if you're in crisis."

"I won't be," Blaine said firmly. "I mean—I'm not, like _that_."

Dr. Ramirez's eyes softened. "I don't mean to imply that I think you're suicidal," she reassured him. "Quite the opposite, actually; I think you've made tremendous strides over the past month. I just know that the holidays can be rough for a lot of people—a loss of routine, interacting with different people than those you see on a daily basis, societal pressure to be 'on' or 'happy', regardless of your actual feelings or state of mind."

She flipped her legal pad back to the first, blank page, before sliding it back into the file on her desk. "I just wanted to remind you that you have a support system here, should you feel like you need it in whatever capacity," she finished.

Locking his folder into the filing cabinet behind her desk, Dr. Ramirez turned back to Blaine. "Shall we?" she offered, tilting her head toward the door with a smile.

Nodding, Blaine stood, holding the door open for Dr. Ramirez to exit the office. He waited patiently for her to lock the door, then followed a step behind her as they walked down the hall toward the stairwell.

* * *

><p>Blaine had no idea what they were supposed to be studying in History the next day—Kurt was wearing a sweater that he'd 'stolen' from Blaine's car, and Blaine's brain was busy trying not to explode.<p>

He didn't even realize that the bell had rung until Kurt was turned around in his chair looking at him, expression a mixture of exasperated and amused. "Are you planning on hanging out in here all day?" he quipped, ruffling Blaine's hair before leaning over to grab his book bag. "As fascinating as post-war Europe is, I would think that you have better ways to spend your time."

Oh. That's what Blaine hadn't learned a single thing about, just then.

"Just thinking," he explained lightly, tearing his eyes away from Kurt's (_his_) sweater and shouldering his own bag.

Kurt led the way out the door and into the hall. "What about?" he wanted to know, waving at Sasha and Mandy as they passed them in a hurry.

_You in my clothes. _"Rehearsal," Blaine lied, not wanting to sound as creepily obsessive as he felt. "Ryleigh and I have practice with Shelby now, even though we're not supposed to be working on our song in rehearsal today."

He frowned. "Actually, I don't remember what we're supposed to be working on in rehearsal today," he admitted.

"Bad Romance," Kurt replied smoothly, naming one of their group numbers. "It'll be nice to actually have a piece completed and polished again—I know we've been slaving away in rehearsals, but it's always a shock to go from a competition program into a mess of half-finished numbers."

Blaine, who hadn't really experienced that to the same extent, shrugged his shoulders. Then shook his head, attempting to force his brain to work again. "Do you want to go out after we're done tonight?" he asked hopefully.

Kurt sighed dramatically. "'Want to', yes; 'can', no," he lamented, lacing his fingers through Blaine's. "My dad has a doctor's appointment tonight, and it's not a good idea for him to drive himself home if they draw any blood samples." He squeezed Blaine's hand. "How about tomorrow night?"

Blaine thought about it before nodding. "Can we do something Christmas-y?" he wanted to know. "I need holiday spirit."

Kurt stared at him, looking a little surprised. "Like what?" he asked, sounding vaguely confused. "Build a snowman? Make cookies?"

Blaine smiled brightly. "Cookies, definitely," he agreed, making Kurt laugh.

"All right, cookies," Kurt promised. "But let's do that on Tuesday, so you can take them with you on your International Sleigh Ride to the Land Where Cold Goes to Die—"

"Also known as Canada," Blaine interrupted, amused.

"—also known as Canada," Kurt allowed, "and they'll still be fresh. Tomorrow, we'll just be unbelievably, nauseatingly adorable and go to the movies. I'll even sit through something with reindeer in it, if you promise to let me wrap my arm around you without having to do the ridiculously predictable fake-yawn thing."

* * *

><p>Blaine was starting to see why Kurt was so invested in the idea of potentially singing lead next year—it was sort of awesome.<p>

"Less vibrato," Shelby was coaching Ryleigh through a particularly high note. "Better. Finish the phrase."

Ryleigh complied. "Good," Shelby decided. "Blaine, join her on that section, please."

Breathing deeply, Blaine followed Ryleigh's lead in, their voices combining flawlessly now that Shelby had fixed Ryleigh's slight squeak. It was such a different sound than when Blaine had listened to Kurt and Sasha duet for Kurt's evaluation—their voices had blended beautifully, the overall sound sweet and whimsical. Blaine and Ryleigh's sound was anything but; their voices raw and powerful as they filled the room with sound.

When they cut off suddenly, perfectly together, Blaine's ears rang slightly with the echo. Shelby nodded, looking pleased. "Excellent, exactly what I was hoping for," she told them, her praise not effervescent, but filling Blaine with warmth all the same.

"Ok. I think we're done for now," she continued. "We're running it on Monday, so keep practicing over the weekend and _don't_ lose your voices. Ryleigh, if it doesn't sound perfect to you, it probably isn't—I'll alert the department that you get top priority on Monday if you need someone to coach you through it again before rehearsal." Ryleigh agreed with a smile, seemingly relishing the attention.

Shelby turned to Blaine. "Blaine, you're friends with Kurt, yes?" she wanted to know.

Blaine's eyes widened, before swiftly dropping to the floor to avoid Shelby's gaze. "Uh, yes?" he stammered out—because he _couldn't_ correct his _teacher_ about something like Kurt not being his friend, but his _boyfriend_ whom he liked to _make out _with_—_Shelby was probably just trying to gauge how well he knew Kurt, not if he knew what Kurt's tongue tasted like.

And God, he was going to have to stop thinking about Kurt's tongue before he said or did something horrifically embarrassing.

If Shelby noticed his complete mental breakdown, she didn't mention it. "Have him practice with you once or twice over the weekend, to keep you sharp," she directed. "It'll be good for him to stretch his voice; the countertenor parts aren't as high this time around as they were for our Sectional's program."

She shooed them out of the room after a minute, citing a phone conference that was starting in two minutes. "Tell Ben I have good news for him, if you see him before rehearsal," she added, before closing the door.

* * *

><p>Out in the hall, Blaine glanced at his watch—there were fifteen more minutes left before the bell was scheduled to ring. "Can I walk you to class?" he offered politely, slinging his bag over his shoulder before stuffing his hands into the pockets of his cardigan.<p>

Ryleigh shook her head, her dark hair flying around her face. "No thanks," she replied easily. "Not much point in going to science if I'm only going to be there for the last ten minutes. Cafeteria?" Blaine shrugged in agreement, since that was where he was supposed to be anyway, and they started walking down the hall.

"Thanks for the offer, though," Ryleigh added after a moment. "You're nice. It's refreshing."

Blaine must have looked confused, because she laughed lightly when she looked over at him. "What?" she said, mockingly defensive. "You are. And you have to have noticed by now that not too many of us are very nice."

Blaine frowned. "I hadn't, really," he disagreed. "Everyone's been great so far."

Ryleigh nodded knowingly. "You'll get there," she said ominously.

Before Blaine could respond, she changed the subject. "You know, you could have told Shelby that Kurt's your boyfriend," she pointed out. "She wouldn't have cared."

Blaine grimaced. "I panicked," he admitted darkly, making Ryleigh laugh again. "If I'd tried to correct her, I probably would have said something mortifying, and would have had to sink into the floor immediately."

Ryleigh shook her head, smiling. "Whatever. She doesn't care if you're gay," she promised. "If you were the lead, she'd probably help control your image a little more tightly; make sure you're palatable to judges and casting directors and college department heads, but she was the one who talked the administration into earmarking funding for a Gay-Straight Alliance."

Blaine looked over at her, surprised. "We have a GSA?" he asked, wondering how he had gone so long at Carmel without noticing that. Not that he had really gone around shopping for extracurriculars, but still.

Ryleigh glanced around before pulling out her cell phone. "Be my lookout," she requested, scrolling through her text messages. "I don't know how big it is, or who's in it, but yeah, we have one," she continued, tapping buttons with swift fingers as Blaine looked up and down the hall, keeping an eye out for teachers or security guards. "They're the ones who throw the Winter Ball, and it's always the best dance of the year."

Blaine swallowed roughly.

Ryleigh didn't notice. "You and Kurt are going, right?" she pressed, eyes still on the screen.

Blaine was saved from answering her by the sudden appearance of the vice principal, 50 yards ahead. "Mr. Sanders," Blaine muttered discreetly, causing Ryleigh to hiss a string of curses before tucking her cell phone back in her purse, just in time.

* * *

><p>The next few days flew by in a haze of rehearsals and classes and papers and singing and holiday preparations, and before Blaine knew it, it was three days until Christmas and he was done with school until January.<p>

A light snow was falling when classes let out on Tuesday afternoon, and Blaine walked extra-slowly across the parking lot, arms full of books, candy, and presents. A surprising number of people had approached him over the course of the day with beribboned candy canes or Christmas cookies, wishing him a Merry Christmas and asking about his vacation plans. He tried to respond with equal grace, glad that Kurt had warned him to bring something to pass out (he'd bought a few pounds of homemade fudge from an entrepreneurial church group raising money at the mall in Westerville, and his mother had been all too happy to dig out some red and green ribbon when he explained what he needed it for).

Even if the people who had given him treats did the same thing for everyone, the gift tags and cards still had his name and a smiley face on them, and the well wishes had been genuine. For him, it was enough.

The sing-along with the Warblers on Sunday had been equally unexpectedly gratifying. Wes had emailed him the set list on Friday—and had obviously warned the other boys that he was coming, if their enthusiastic greetings and freely proffered handshakes were any indication. One of the freshmen had even brought a spare blazer for him to wear for the performance, which was extremely well-received by the observing shoppers. After making it through all eleven songs—mostly group numbers, but a couple of soloists were featured, and the most stunning rendition of The First Noel Blaine had ever heard was performed by a quartet of seniors—the Warblers broke off into smaller groups to shop, under strict orders from Mark ("The senior-most member of the Warbler's Council; I'm in line for his position next year," Wes had muttered into Blaine's ear) to be back on the bus in forty-five minutes.

Blaine had spent the time with Wes and a few of the others, getting coffee (Wes insisted on paying for his, "as a thank you for lending us your dulcet tenor") and talking about Dalton in general ("I know you're not allowed to talk about Vocal Adrenaline, and discussing anything Warbler-related outside of rehearsal tends to become…counterproductive"). Blaine had a genuinely nice time, and was sad to see them go when 4:30 rolled around, though Wes and the other council members insisted that he was welcome back at any time.

It wasn't quite enough to make him wish he had chosen Dalton, because Dalton didn't have Kurt. But watching the bus pull out of the parking lot, Blaine couldn't help but feel a small, inexplicable sense of loss.

Kurt was spending the afternoon cleaning the house and preparing the guest room—that Blaine still really wanted to see—for his great-aunt, whose train was arriving that night. Blaine's offer to help had been met by a fond eye roll, and instructions to come over for Christmas cookie baking around 6:00.

"It'll give me time to wash off that Lemon-Based Cleaner scent," Kurt had explained. "Besides, I still have to wrap your present—and, no pressure, but you should pretend to like it, even if you don't, in order to avoid hurting my ego."

Blaine had yet to mention the Winter Ball that Ryleigh had told him about. After getting over the initial, Pavlovian-like dread at the word 'dance', Blaine had spent a few hours fluctuating back and forth between a.) hurt that Kurt hadn't asked him to go, despite the fact that Kurt _had_ to know about it, b.) guilt that Kurt probably thought he couldn't handle going, and was consequently avoiding the topic entirely despite his own love of dancing, and c.) shame that Kurt might be right in thinking that. He'd had every intention of flat-out _asking_ Kurt about the dance on their date on Saturday, but in the end, they'd been having such a nice time (Kurt pretended to moan at the reindeer, but Blaine could tell that he was secretly enjoying the movie anyway) that Blaine couldn't bring himself to spoil it.

If he was being honest with himself, he wasn't sure what he would say if Kurt did ask him to go. It would be so different than his old school—the dance was sponsored by the _Gay-Straight Alliance_, for one thing, and Carmel had the security guards and strict bullying policies that his old school lacked—but it was one thing for Blaine to understand that intellectually, and quite another to really _know _it in his gut.

He still hadn't made up his mind, whether or not to say anything to Kurt about it, by the time he was standing on Kurt's doorstep that evening, Christmas gift in hand.

Any thoughts of the dance were driven out of Blaine's mind, however, when Kurt opened the door wearing yoga pants.

"Come in, come in," Kurt greeted Blaine, ushering him inside and quickly closing the door behind him. "You're freezing; let me make you some hot chocolate."

Hot chocolate sounded like a fantastic idea, so Blaine quickly pulled off his coat and boots and followed Kurt into the kitchen, trying not to stare blatantly at the swing of Kurt's hips, just in case Mr. Hummel was home.

As if he knew what Blaine was thinking, Kurt smiled as he filled up the tea kettle. "Dad's going straight from work to the station in Columbus to get Mildred," he told Blaine. "They shouldn't get in until 10:00, so you're safe from her for now."

Blaine raised an eyebrow. "Isn't she in her seventies?" he asked, trying to remember what Kurt had said about her, and if he should legitimately be afraid for any reason.

"At least," Kurt said dryly, taking a set of mugs down from the cabinet. "I'm pretty sure she used to terrify the dinosaurs back in her youth with her inappropriate questions and ability to drink a T-Rex under the table, but Dad says that might be a slight exaggeration on my part." He brushed past Blaine, getting a carton of skim milk out of the refrigerator. "Did you eat yet" he asked, filling each mug halfway before glancing at Blaine. "I can make you something, or you're welcome to try the horrible vegan spice cake that Jesse's girlfriend brought over last night." He nodded at the counter to the left of the sink, where a Saran-wrapped creation that could only generously be referred to as a cake was sitting on a floral dish.

"It's pink," Blaine observed, drawing away from it instinctually.

Kurt nodded. "Apparently, her specialty is 'I'm Sorry' cookies, but she couldn't think of anything she'd done to me that merited an apology, and didn't want to purposely wrong her boyfriend's best friend, just to appropriately inspire her baking," he recited solemnly. "Which, if you've talked to Rachel for more than five minutes, actually makes a twisted sort of sense."

Blaine couldn't stop staring at the pink mass. "Yeah, I'm going to have to say that I'm not particularly hungry right now," he decided, shuddering slightly.

Kurt smirked. "Wise choice," he agreed.

The kettle whistled, and Kurt turned off the burner. "So," he said casually, filling the mugs the rest of the way with hot water and adding spoonfuls of chocolate powder, "cookies first, or presents?"

Blaine picked up the blue bag that held Kurt's present. "Presents," he decided, taking care not to drop the bag and shatter the glass within.

Kurt handed Blaine a mug of hot chocolate. "Presents it is," he agreed with a smile. "Yours is in the living room; shall we?"

* * *

><p>Blaine's present was beautifully wrapped—and took up nearly half of the coffee table. "Don't worry," Kurt laughed, when he saw Blaine's expression. "You'll get it when you open it. And actually, why don't you open yours first? I've been waiting on this for <em>ages<em>."

Humoring him, Blaine set his mug down on a coaster and carefully unwrapped the paper. The long, plain white box underneath gave no hints as to what was inside, so with a small smile, Blaine sliced off the tape and lifted open the top.

Inside, three adorable, plush lion cubs sat side by side, looking up at Blaine with their dark glass eyes. "I told you, the first time we went to the zoo, that I was going to get you lion cubs for Christmas," Kurt reminded him. "But you'll have to remind me which one is which; you know them better than I do."

It was only then that Blaine noticed it: patches of fur on each stuffed animal had been expertly cut and dyed, in order to match _his _lions.

Blaine reached out, gently stroking Priya's incredibly soft head, the pattern of spots between her ears painstakingly done. "Kurt, how…" he managed, before his voice failed him, too choked up to finish articulating the question.

Luckily, Kurt seemed to know where he was headed. "I watched the video of them on the Zoo's website about 500 times," he admitted. "I had to guess a little on this one's back," he said, pointing to Mali, "since there wasn't a very good shot of it anywhere. I thought about going back on my own to take reference pictures, but…" He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. "It didn't feel right, going without you. Do you like them?"

Blaine looked at Kurt, incredulous. "Kurt, they're _perfect_," he said honestly, "I can't believe you did all of that work." He shook his head slightly, overwhelmed. "Where did you even learn how to do that?" he asked.

Kurt reached into the box, pulling out Rafiki and settling the cub on his lap. "My mom," he explained, smoothing the fur into place with a gentle hand. "I'm actually pretty athletic when I want to be, but I think it was pretty clear to both of my parents from the start where most of my talents lie. She never tried to dumb down anything for me—our projects were with real materials from the start."

He blinked a few times, and Blaine knew he was fighting back tears. "I'm glad," he added. "I don't know that I would have had the heart to teach myself anything, if she promised to do it before she died and was just…gone, before she could."

Putting Rafiki back in the box, he looked up at Blaine, eyes still a little too bright. "My turn?" he asked, snapping Blaine out of the near-trance he had fallen into, watching Kurt.

"Your turn," Blaine agreed, picking the bag up off of the couch next to him and handing it to Kurt, but not letting go of it completely yet. "Before you open it, I have a confession to make," he admitted, trying to keep his expression serious even when Kurt looked at him, the expression on his face a mix of skeptical and intrigued.

"Oh?" Kurt asked, clearly waiting for Blaine to elaborate.

Blaine did: "In order to get your present, I had to steal something of yours," he confessed, making Kurt's eyebrows shoot up, looking more amused at Blaine's nerves than anything. "I kept it extremely safe, I promise, but—you'll understand when you see it."

He let go of the bag, and Kurt reached into it. "Careful, it's fragile," Blaine warned, as Kurt lifted out the tissue paper-wrapped object and began curiously pulling away the layers.

When Kurt reached the picture frame inside, he inhaled sharply. "Oh," he said softly. "Oh, Blaine."

Blaine moved closer to where Kurt was sitting in order to look over his shoulder at the picture—the photo of Kurt's family that Kurt had shown him that first week, professionally cleaned up and enhanced. Blaine had seen the two photos side by side, both on the computer in the lab and in person, and there was no question that the newer copy was stunning, the detail as clear and exquisite as if the picture had been taken by a professional photographer that day.

"I asked Sarabeth for advice on where to go to get it done, and her dad gave me some leads," he explained quietly, reaching out to steady Kurt' shaking hands. "They needed the original print, so I took a picture of it with my digital camera and swapped my copy for the real photograph—I put yours in the frame too, underneath. I know it's so personal, and I promise I'll understand if you don't want it, but…"

He looked at four year old Kurt in the picture, grasping his mother's hand—a detail he'd missed, the first day. "I just saw the way you looked at her, when you showed me the picture, and I wanted to give you the clearest view I could, that's all." He finished, biting his lip before looking at Kurt's face.

Kurt's face, which was slick with tears. "I was forgetting," he murmured hollowly. "I didn't think I was, but it's been such a long time…" He stared hungrily at the picture, putting a hand over his mouth.

Blaine stroked his arm gently, staying quiet.

Finally, Kurt sighed. "I promise, one day we'll make it through a date without one of us crying," he said, in a slightly petulant tone that made Blaine laugh with relief.

"Not every date," he countered easily. "I think we've gotten through at least half of them without any intense emotional displays, haven't we?"

Kurt made a noise that was half laughter, half sobbing, before putting the picture frame down on the table and wiping his face with both hands. "Thank you, Blaine," he said softly. "Really. I'm going to keep it in my room until Mildred leaves, because when I show my dad I think it should just be the two of us, but…thank you."

* * *

><p>Blaine put the picture downstairs while Kurt began pulling baking supplies out of various cabinets. "I have a lot of old cookbooks with fancy cookie recipes," Kurt explained when Blaine was back in the kitchen, "but I think the traditional sugar cookie would suit our purposes."<p>

"Do you have cookie cutters?" Blaine wanted to know, "In shapes like stars and candy canes and things?"

Kurt smiled brilliantly, the last vestiges of tears gone from his face. "Who do you think you're talking to?" he teased, opening up one of the lower cabinets and pulling out a small, flat box of metal cookie cutters.

They doubled the recipe on Kurt's insistence (and added a few more spices that he promised would improve the finished product), and ended up with enough dough for three and a half trays of cookies. Kurt had gone to the store on the way home from school for decorating supplies, and they set to work as soon as the first batch was cool; a wide assortment of frosting, sprinkles, cinnamon candies, powdered sugar, etc. laid out on the table between them. Kurt, it turned out, was something of a perfectionist when it came to cookie decorating ("The first in a long line of things that applies to, you'll discover," he'd confirmed dryly when Blaine pointed it out). Blaine, on the other hand, could never get them just right, and gave up any hope of aesthetically pleasing cookies after the first three attempts.

He did, however, painstakingly decorate a little gingerbread man shaped cookie to look like Kurt, giving him little yoga pants and a tiny striped shirt with ¾ sleeves. "Look who it is," he laughed, holding it up for Kurt to see, pleased with himself when he saw the delighted expression on Kurt's face. "I'm Kurt," he made the little cookie say, "I'm the best singer in the whole wide world, and I can do a triple pirouette and advanced calculus at the _saaaame tiiiime._"

Kurt shuddered. "I don't really sound like that, do I?" he asked, making a face.

Blaine assured him that he didn't.

Two of the cookies on the next tray broke when Kurt tried to loosen them with his spatula, and Blaine happily ate the pieces—to get them out of the way, of course—while Kurt put the pan in the sink to soak. "I saved a limb for you," Blaine informed Kurt when he returned, holding out the little cookie arm like an offering.

Kurt looked at it skeptically. "You just made a cookie version of me," he pointed out. "Wouldn't eating part of his baked brethren be in poor taste?"

Blaine shook his head. "It would be in excellent taste," he disagreed, "cinnamon and cloves, as a matter of fact. Here."

Kurt laughed, but still shook his head. "Come on," Blaine wheedled, "I've already eaten, like, five broken ones, and I'm sure I'll eat another dozen in the car tomorrow. This cookie arm might be the piece that pushes me over the edge. You don't want me to get fat, do you?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "You're perfect," he said sternly, "your body is perfect. If you don't want to eat it, just throw it out."

Blaine's eyes widened. "That's blasphemous," he told Kurt, fighting to keep a straight face when Kurt started laughing. "You'd have me _throw away _a poor little defenseless cookie?"

Kurt squawked indignantly. "You were going to make me _eat_ him!" he argued. "How is that any better?"

Sighing heavily, Blaine positioned his feet underneath the table in preparation, hoping Kurt wouldn't notice. "Fine," he lamented dramatically. "I tried logic, I tried appealing to your better nature, but nothing's worked. Kurt, you've left me no choice."

Kurt must have realized what Blaine was going to do about half a second before he actually did it, because he was out of his chair and halfway across the kitchen before Blaine pounced on him, wrapping his arms and a leg around Kurt and holding the cookie near Kurt's mouth. "Eat," Blaine demanded cheerfully, holding onto Kurt as his boyfriend's struggles became perfunctory, then tapered off altogether.

"All right!" Kurt shouted finally, still laughing. "Shut up already." Blaine moved the cookie closer to his mouth, and Kurt made sure to bite down on his fingers a little as he accepted the little arm. Rather than objecting, Blaine tightened his arms around Kurt with a sigh, laying his head on Kurt's shoulder as Kurt chewed and swallowed the cookie. Kurt stroked Blaine's back gently, and they stood there for a long moment.

"You know," Kurt said finally, "I think this is the happiest I've ever seen you."

Blaine lifted his head. "Is it?" he wondered, thinking about it.

He felt Kurt nod. "You've been smiling more lately, and you've never struck me as particularly _un_happy," he elaborated. "But I don't think the You I met a few months ago would have tackled someone and forced them to consume baked goods. I kind of love it."

Blaine nodded, resting his chin back on Kurt's shoulder. "I feel happier," he mused, breathing in Kurt's cologne and the sugar-spice aroma of their freshly-baked cookies. "I haven't really actively thought about it, but I do."

He glanced down and frowned. "I got powdered sugar all over your shirt," he pointed out, stepping back a few inches from Kurt to better assess the damage. "You're covered in it, I'm sorry."

Kurt looked at him, eyes sparkling wickedly. "Oops," he said flatly, before reaching down and stripping off his shirt.

Blaine's breath caught in in his throat.

Kurt's skin was pale and taut, wrapped around slim dancer muscles. A slight trail of hair disappeared under the hem of his pants, but the rest of him was smooth and supple and _perfect_, everything Blaine hadn't consciously realized he'd imagined Kurt to be until that moment. His hands twitched, aching with the sudden need to _touch_, and Blaine ruthlessly suppressed the urge, grabbing the counter behind him in order to have something solid, grounding, to hold onto.

Kurt shifted slightly. "You're staring," he pointed out gently, voice slightly lower and huskier than usual.

Blaine's mouth was dry. "Yeah," he managed, unwilling and unable to pull his gaze up to meet Kurt's eyes.

Kurt moved in closer, his breath warm and sugar-scented on Blaine's cheek. "If I'm making you uncomfortable, tell me, and I'll go downstairs and get a clean shirt," he murmured quietly, reaching out and tracing his fingertips up Blaine's arms.

Blaine shivered.

"But if you want to," Kurt continued, in that same slow, sensual tone, "you can touch me. If you're comfortable with that. I want you to."

That was all the invitation Blaine needed—wrenching his hands free from the counter, he reached forward. He brushed his fingertips over Kurt's stomach; first feather-light, then a little firmer, eliciting a quiet, sharp breath from Kurt. Encouraged, Blaine stepped closer and ran his hands up Kurt's waist, ghosting over his ribs until he reached his chest. Kurt's nipples hardened under his palms—it was _so much different_ than touching his own, how had he not realized—and his small whimper in response went straight to Blaine's gut, a familiar warmth spreading down between his legs.

That was all it took: gripping Kurt's waist with one hand and threading the other hand into Kurt's hair, Blaine pulled him forward, kissing him fiercely. Kurt responded immediately, mouth open and hot and wet and _God, everything _Blaine wanted. Kurt's hands slipped inside Blaine's shirt, digging into the muscles of his lower back, making him gasp into Kurt's mouth before pulling Kurt even closer, until their chests _(stomachs hips thighs) _were pressed against each other.

Kurt's hands slid up even further, and Blaine pulled away just long enough to tear his own shirt off and toss it to the side before his hands were back on Kurt's face, mouth back on Kurt's as he kissed him hungrily, even deeper than before. Kurt wrapped his arms around Blaine and _pulled_, and suddenly their bodies were flush against each other like they'd been before—only it was nothing like before; the surreptitious late night movie watching that Blaine rarely indulged in, praying the whole time that a virus didn't crash his computer and necessitate a mortifying conversation with his parents, had left him entirely unprepared for the sensation of someone else's bare skin on his own for the first time. What little blood was left in his brain rushed south, and even _that _was different; the rush and unpredictability of someone else's—of _Kurt's_—hands and mouth and tongue and body on his own was _so much more intense_ than he had ever experienced, and he couldn't remember ever getting that hard in his _life._

There was no space between them but Blaine pressed in anyway, surrounding himself with Kurt's touch and taste and scent, and was rewarded when Kurt pushed forward, guiding Blaine backwards until his lower back hit the counter behind him. Kurt reached down and gripped Blaine's waist almost uncomfortably tight, but Blaine barely had time to register the sensation before Kurt's hips began canting into his own.

Blaine keened shamelessly, latching onto Kurt's shoulders with slippery hands. He dug his nails into Kurt's skin, making Kurt gasp and push harder, and Blaine was trapped between the cool surface behind him and the hot, hard lines of Kurt's body; powerless to do anything but spew unintelligible noises and _take _it as Kurt drove into him. Desperate for more contact, Blaine wrapped a hand around the back of Kurt's neck and yanked him forward, breaking away from Kurt's mouth and biting down on the sensitive skin above his collarbone. Kurt cried out, tilting his head to give Blaine better access even as he began slowing down, his grip on Blaine tightening even further.

"Blaine…_God, _we should," he panted, sounding thoroughly wrecked. "If we, _oh_…if we don't stop I'm going to have a…_oh, God_—a serious problem."

Blaine couldn't think; his body protesting the loss of heat and friction and crying out for release. "Kurt, please," he pleaded, voice cracking in a way that would have been embarrassing if he'd had the coherency to recognize it. "I need—please."

Kurt looked at him, face beautifully flushed and pupils blown wide. "Are you sure?" he asked breathlessly. "Because I want—I want you to be sure."

There was no question in Blaine's mind that he wanted it; wanted _Kurt._ He was flushed and sweaty and so hard that it physically _hurt_, and seeing Kurt the same way—knowing that _he had done that_—there was no question. "I'm sure," he promised. "Kurt, _please._"

Nodding, Kurt reached back in, cradling Blaine's cheek for a few seconds before kissing him—less desperately than before, but with a firmness that lit Blaine up just the same. His hands scrabbled for purchase on Kurt's back, finally settling on his shoulder blades and digging his fingers into Kurt's skin as Kurt slammed into him one, two, three more times.

When Blaine came, it almost took him by surprise—he'd been so lost in the sensation, so much _more_ than anything he'd ever felt before, that the final snap of Kurt's hips into his own that pushed him over the edge nearly caught him off guard. He fell forward slightly into Kurt's chest, shockwaves of heat and pleasure tearing through his whole body, rippling down into his hands and feet and making them clench reflexively. Kurt cried out a second later, shuddering against Blaine and grabbing Blaine's biceps, clutching him for support as his own orgasm ripped through him.

Blaine's head was swimming as he leaned into Kurt. Kurt held them both up for a few seconds, but seemed to be having a similar problem, and it wasn't long before he lowered them both to the floor, laying down on the tile and pulling Blaine into him. Blaine used the last of his energy to wrap his hand around Kurt's arm possessively, feeling Kurt press kisses into his sweaty temple as their ragged breathing slowly returned to normal.

Or what passed for normal, anyway—Blaine had never wanted to crawl inside someone else's body and just _stay_ there before, and he wasn't sure that was normal in any sense.

Kurt stroked his hair with a trembling hand. "Too much?" he asked, lips brushing lightly against Blaine's skin.

Blaine nodded. "But in the best way," he assured Kurt, letting go of his arm and curling into him before wearily closing his eyes. Kurt laughed softly—in happiness, in relief, Blaine didn't know—and continued to stroke Blaine's hair until Blaine fell asleep, sticky and sweaty and tired, but blissfully content.

* * *

><p>When Blaine got home almost two hours later, his hands were jittery, and it took him three tries to fit his key in the door that led from the garage to the back hall. He'd reluctantly turned down Kurt's offer to stay the night ("Unfortunately, our guest room will be overcome with the stench of Cranky Old Gin-Soaked Bat, but I don't mind sleeping on the couch"), citing his curfew and early morning departure, but was wearing a fresh pair of boxer-briefs that Kurt had given him, cheeks flaming ("They're new, I promise").<p>

Before he'd left, Kurt had packed him a large plastic container of the cookies, keeping only about a dozen for himself and his family. "_You_ are going on an international road trip tomorrow," he'd said sternly, when Blaine had protested the unequal division. "_I _am spending six hours in the garage, hiding from the woman who routinely asks me how I'm filling my time now that the little one has started school, and no, you don't want to know. The point is, I'd give you all the cookies, if I didn't owe Dad a serious apology for abandoning him for half the day."

Blaine had thought about it, before deciding that if Great-Aunt Mildred was really that cantankerous, he probably really didn't want to know. "What are you doing on Christmas Eve?" he'd asked instead. "Around 11:00, 11:30?"

Kurt's forehead had wrinkled in thought. "Not much, probably," he'd replied. "Mildred will be in bed by then, and Dad never makes it through the Christmas specials—he falls asleep halfway through."

Blaine had nodded. "Can you get on Skype at 11:00?" he'd wanted to know. "There's something I want to show you, but it can't be until then."

Kurt had agreed, curious, making Blaine smile. He had almost written down the date and time and slipped it into Kurt's gift bag as a second present, but in the end had decided against it, just in case Kurt couldn't make it for whatever reason.

Closing the garage door behind him, Blaine yanked off his boots and hung up his coat, making sure his clothes were straight and his hair was relatively neat before making his way to the kitchen.

Which turned out to be a smart decision—his mother was sitting at the kitchen table; dressed down for the evening in her glasses and cardigan and working on her laptop. "Hi, sweetheart," she greeted him, sparing him a glance before turning back to the screen. "How was the dinner party?"

Blaine pushed down the pang of guilt he felt at her easy acceptance of her earlier lie ("Kurt's having a small group of us over for dinner, and we might watch a holiday movie after, if there's anything good on"), reminding himself that his parents just needed to see that he was happy—they were all better off if Blaine didn't tell them why, at least for now. "It was good," he confirmed. "One of the girls brought _The Nightmare Before Christmas_, so we kept it on in the background while making Christmas cookies."

"They sound like nice kids," his mother commented, hitting the backspace button several times before turning to look at him, a little less anxiously than Blaine was used to seeing lately. "You know, it would be all right if you wanted to invite a few of them over, sometime."

Blaine blanched, thankful that he had been facing away from her, getting a glass from the cupboard. "Maybe," he responded, fighting to make his tone come out evenly, Old Blaine-like. "Probably not for a while, though—Kurt's friend Sasha was there, and she invited everyone to her house for New Year's Eve."

That was actually mostly true—Sasha was hosting VA's New Year's Eve party, and she had made a point of tracking Blaine down between classes the day before to invite him. "It won't be as crazy as Halloween," she'd warned, "because my parents usually come home from their own party around 3:00 or 4:00. But it'll still be fun, and we have a hot tub in the backyard."

Blaine filled his cup with water from the dispenser on the freezer door. "I'm going to go finish packing," he told his mother, "are we still leaving at nine?"

Blaine's mom frowned. "Closer to 9:30, probably," she sighed, "but be ready to go, just in case."

Blaine nodded, and was halfway out the door when his mother called after him. "A package came for you today," she told him. "I left it on your bed."

Blaine paused, confused—he had no idea who would send him anything. He'd ordered a few gifts online, but had shipped them straight to their recipients, and the few extended family members that sent him Christmas presents were more the Card and Gift Certificate type.

The box on his bed was neatly wrapped in plain brown paper, his name and address printed across the center in handwriting that he only vaguely recognized. The return address was the same; touching off something in his memory, but with no clear explanations as to why.

Setting his water down on his desk, Blaine removed the paper, using a pair of scissors to cut the packing tape on the box's edge before opening the lid. The thick, heady scent of coffee filled the room as Blaine pulled out two colorful, heavy sacks that were labeled in Spanish.

A note that had been tucked between them fluttered to the ground:

_Dear Blaine, _it read,

_I apologize for not bringing this over myself, but my in-person contact with anyone from Carmel has been sadly limited as of late—New Directions is concerned that I might be passing information, and I'd hate to give them more reasons to doubt my integrity. Anyways, I remembered how much you enjoyed the coffee at my house, so I arranged an additional shipment through my parents' supplier. Happy Holidays, and I hope to see much more of you in the coming New Year._

_Best regards,_

_Jesse St. James_

* * *

><p><em>Coming up next: Blaine's Grandma, Christmas, and an ambiguous beginning to a New Year… <em>


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16/? My theoretical estimation says roughly 30—let's see how (in)accurate that turns out to be :)

Many of you were wondering which scene contradicted canon in Chapter 15. To quote Senior Warbler Wes: "The Warblers haven't performed in an informal setting since 1927, when the Spirit of St. Louis overshot the tarmac and plowed through seven Warblers during an impromptu performance of 'Welcome to Ohio, Lucky Lindy.'" Whoops.

Also! The average time between chapters, I've found, tends to be around a week and a half. So since I probably won't see you before then, Happy Holidays, if you celebrate them! Catch you all before the New Year, when (hopefully!) I'll have some delightful news to share with you.

As always, you're all awesome, and I don't own anything. But 'tis the season, so I'll keep hoping.

* * *

><p>The drive from Blaine's house to Toronto usually took about seven hours; more if there was a long wait at the Canadian border.<p>

The trunk of his dad's car was filled with suitcases and Christmas presents, so Blaine had settled himself into the backseat with all of his things (a duffle bag filled with clothes and toiletries, his backpack, a stack of pillows), alternating between doing his homework and texting Kurt with a phone that was on silent. Not that his parents would have heard it ringing anyway: between the noise of the traffic around them and the holiday music pouring from the car radio, Blaine was tempted to borrow his mother's earmuffs just to muffle the ambient noise.

Blaine's parents were absorbed in their respective tasks—his father was driving, occasionally tapping along with the music on the steering wheel; his mother was reading _The Time Traveler's Wife_ for her book club—leaving Blaine to fill in the pages of his Spanish workbook and write paragraph answers about _The Stranger_ and T.S. Eliot in peace. Every once in a while his phone would light up, a new message from Kurt flashing across the screen:

_Mildred just insulted my cooking. She's eating Weetabix._

_I thought I heard a mouse in the office and I literally didn't move for about 3 minutes. Why are they so scary? They're, like, 1/1000 of my size._

_What day are you getting back again? I know you told me, but I was distracted by your lips moving at the time._

_Oh God, I just got home and I can hear Dad and Mildred listening to Springsteen from the driveway. If they blow out the speakers, I'm going to be supremely unhappy._

_Fine, go gallivant in a foreign country and leave me all alone. If you come home dressed like a lumberjack, I'm sending you back._

_PS—I'd be okay with it if you came back in a Mountie uniform. You look good in red._

The last message came as Blaine's dad was driving down Queen Street East, past the Gardens and Lake Ontario on one side, antique shops and touristy stores and beautifully artistic houses on the other. Blaine found himself smiling at the familiarity of it all, especially when they drove past the ice cream shop that was his favorite—their 'small' was roughly the size of a softball, and Blaine was thirteen years old before he finished a whole sundae without help.

He was going to have to go back and order one, if only to take a picture of it to show Kurt—he'd be horrified by it.

A few minutes later they were turning off the main road and onto a side street; a minute after that, they were parked in the tilted driveway of his Grandma's old house. The blue paint looked a little more worn than Blaine remembered, but the neatly-kept yard and string of lights along the gutter suggested that someone skilled and careful was assisting with the maintenance. Light poured cheerfully through the downstairs windows—some of which were stained glass, a feature that Blaine had adored as a little boy—and it wasn't long before the front door was thrown open, and Grandma came teetering out the storm door and onto the Welcome mat.

"Hello! Oh, you're here!" she called out to them, enthusiastic as only a grandparent could be. "Blaine, darling, come here and let me look at you."

Blaine's breath was visible in the air as he trudged up the icy path from the driveway to the front porch. "Hi, Grandma," he replied with a genuine smile, bouncing up the two steps to the front door and leaning down to wrap his arms around her.

She returned the hug briefly before pulling back and straightening the lapel of his jacket. "Hello, Sweetheart," she greeted, drinking him in with her usual pleased expression. "Just look at you," she mused, "you're looking so much healthier than the last time I saw you. And taller. Have you grown?"

Blaine rolled his eyes fondly, not bothering to mention that the last time she'd seen him, he'd just been released from the hospital. "I don't think so," he answered regretfully. "I think between your genes and Mom's, I might be done growing."

Grandma patted his arm. "Nonsense," she reassured him. "Boys don't stop growing until they're in their twenties, you know—you still have plenty of time. And you'll always be tall to me."

* * *

><p>Blaine brought his things up to his room—a small, mint green bedroom at the end of the hall, with gauzy white curtains that reminded him of Ancient Egyptian mummies—giving his parents time to bring everything else into the house and hide his Christmas presents in the laundry room. The sheets were different, and someone had clearly been in recently to dust the furniture and clean the warped glass windows, but other than that, the room remained untouched since Blaine's last visit. "I don't have guests stay over that often," Grandma had confided in him once, when he was younger. "But when I do, they stay in your parents' room. Your room is just for you."<p>

Blaine loved that.

When he figured enough time had passed, Blaine padded softly down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Grandma was making a pot of tea. She smiled at Blaine when she saw him. "Your Dad's resting on the couch until dinner," she informed him, taking a handful of spoons from the drawer.

Blaine nodded and got the mugs down from the cupboard automatically, not needing to ask where his mother was—she hated long car trips, and the sound of the shower running in the bathroom had been audible from the upstairs hallway. "Are we going out, or eating here?" he asked instead, sitting down on his stool by the granite countertop.

Grandma's smile grew. "I was thinking we'd go to that Italian place you liked this past summer," she answered, taking the kettle off the stove burner as it began to whistle. "We have reservations in a couple of hours, if that's all right with you."

Blaine smiled. "No, that's good," he assured her, thinking longingly of the eggplant lasagna that had been the special when they'd gone in July. Normally he wasn't a big lasagna fan, but he could have eaten the entire tray of that particular dish, given the chance.

Grandma poured hot water into each of the mugs. "Did you bring any pictures from your competition last month?" she asked, passing him a mug and a spoon before sitting down across from him.

Blaine shook his head apologetically, reaching for the sugar bowl and adding three cubes to each of their drinks. "I don't actually have any," he admitted, "but I know someone who probably does. I'll ask him when I get back, and send you copies."

She nodded her approval. "And of course, you'll sing me all of your songs," she added. "When your father's not trying to sleep, obviously."

She stirred the dissolving sugar into her tea before taking a sip. "Tell me about your friends," she asked, patting his hand where it rested on the counter with her slightly-withered one.

Hesitantly, Blaine told her a little bit about Sarabeth and Ryleigh, mentioning a few details about Ben, Sasha, and Mary—none of whom were really _friend_ friends, but at least had the potential to be soon. After thinking about it, he told her a little about Jesse as well. After all, he'd been nothing but kind to Blaine since they had met, and the only reason that Blaine had to be wary around him was that he used to date Kurt. And he _had_ sent Blaine a Christmas gift, which was a nice thing to do.

Grandma listened attentively to his slightly-censored rambling—she didn't need to know that he had been drinking on Halloween, after all—with a proud smile. "Oh, that sounds wonderful," she encouraged. "I just knew you'd make a whole group of friends, when your dad mentioned that you'd joined that singing club."

Blaine felt himself blushing slightly under her praise, which was always effusive whether he'd earned it or not.

Grandma took another sip of her tea. "Is there anyone special that you've got your eye on?" she asked, in the same slightly teasing tone she'd used to ask him that question since he was five.

The smile slid right off of Blaine's face, blood draining from his formerly flushed cheeks as he looked automatically to the open door leading into the living room.

To her credit, Grandma realized almost immediately what the problem was. "Hold that thought," she whispered gently, before using the counter as leverage to push herself to her feet. Taking a third mug of tea from the counter near the stove, she winked at Blaine before disappearing through the doorway.

"James," Blaine heard her say, "James, are you—oh, I'm sorry, darling, I thought you were still awake. I was just going to tell you to meet us at the restaurant at 7:30. Blaine's going to help me pick out a few last minute trinkets for Rose's granddaughters."

There was a pause, where his dad mumbled an answer that Blaine couldn't hear well enough to decipher.

"No, dear; Rose my neighbor," Grandma replied cheerily. "Her daughter has the three most precious little girls, and they took such a shine to Blaine when they were visiting from Quebec this summer. I'm sure I don't know what to get them, but I know if Rose tells them that Blaine helped choose their presents, it'll make all the difference."

Another pause.

"All right then. Call us if you run into trouble parking." Grandma reentered the kitchen and smiled at Blaine, whose fingers were starting to ache from how tightly he was gripping his mug of tea. "Leave that, Sweetheart, and get your coat," she ordered kindly, picking her purse up from the counter with both hands. "We'll go downtown and have a chat."

Wordlessly, Blaine obeyed.

* * *

><p>Grandma didn't broach the subject again once they were in the car, choosing instead to talk about more innocuous things—the weather, the traffic, her year-old kitten Mopsy (who was grey and adorable, and had a propensity toward battling the neighbor's garden gnomes that the neighbors didn't appreciate <em>nearly<em> as much as the two of them did).

It wasn't until they were seated in the basement of the Eaton Centre, their fresh-squeezed juices on the round, rickety table in front of them ("Smoothies will ruin our appetites for dinner, but juice hardly counts") that she tried again. "So, who is he?" she asked, passing him a napkin from her purse.

Blaine bit his lip nervously. "You can't tell them," he warned, taking the napkin from her and draping it over his lap. "They've met him, a little bit, but they think he's just my friend."

Grandma nodded. "Do they know he's like you?" she asked, delicately avoiding the use of the word 'gay' like she always did.

Which Blaine always found weird, even if it didn't bother him. "I don't think so," he answered honestly. "I haven't said anything. And the first time Mom met him, he was fixing my car. He's a mechanic at his Dad's shop."

Blaine smiled at the memory—he'd _never_ say anything to Kurt about it, since Kurt had obviously been a little self-conscious about being seen by Blaine in his work outfit, but his boyfriend?

Totally rocked the grease look.

Grandma looked like she was trying not to frown. "Sweetheart," she said cautiously, "how old _is _this young man? Because I know how smart you are, and I trust your judgment, but…."

Blaine couldn't help but laugh. "Kurt's 16, just like me, Grandma," he reassured her, feeling especially fond of her in that moment. "I met him at school. He's in my show choir, actually."

He reached across the table, gently squeezing her hand. "Trust me," he added, "if you saw him, you wouldn't be worried about him taking advantage of me; I'm pretty sure he weighs less than I do."

Grandma seemed comforted by that. "Kurt," she repeated, trying out the name before smiling at Blaine. "Do you have a picture of him in your wallet?"

Blaine laughed again. "I don't think anyone my age does that anymore, Grandma," he explained, taking a sip of his violently purple juice. "But I have a few on my phone, hang on." He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out his cell phone and tapping on the buttons until the picture he wanted filled the screen: Kurt on their most recent trip to the zoo, wearing a grey coat and glamorous sunglasses, leaning over the fence and explaining something to a curious-looking Priya.

He held the phone out to Grandma who, rather than take it from him, held his wrist still with gentle hands as she leaned in closer to look. Something like approval showed in her expression. "My, he _is_ handsome," she decided, making Blaine flush with warmth.

"He is," he agreed, "and he's so nice, too. And he's really smart, and an incredible singer—better than me, for sure."

Grandma raised an eyebrow at his gushing. "Nobody's a better singer than you," she disagreed with a slight frown. She studied him. "Does he treat you well?" she wanted to know.

Blaine nodded.

Grandma smiled. "Then that's all I need to know." She said lightly.

She took another sip of her juice, glancing at her watch. "We should get going in a minute, if we're going to make our reservations," she pointed out. "But maybe you'll introduce me to Kurt, the next time I come for a visit?"

Blaine took a deep breath. "Actually," he admitted, "I was wondering if you could help me with something."

* * *

><p>Blaine woke up on Christmas Eve to the sound of his phone chiming.<p>

It was a text from Kurt: _Still on for 11:30?_

Blaine smiled sleepily, fingers fumbling slightly over the keys as he texted back: _Still on for 11:30 3_

A minute later, his screen lit up again. _See you then 3 Miss you :(_

Blaine debated for a long time. In the end, he chickened out. _Miss you too :(, _he sent back. _See you tonight :)_

Dropping the phone back on the wicker table next to his bed, Blaine curled back up on his side and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

><p>Blaine sat in the small, cozy parlor at the back of the house that evening, waiting for everyone else to finish getting ready for the annual Holiday Gala at the Sheraton Centre. He was already dressed in his suit and ready to go, his slim leather laptop case on the chair next to him, and his umbrella was nearby on the table, in case it ended up snowing.<p>

Blaine, possibly for the first time ever, was really, really hoping that it didn't snow.

When he was younger, he'd hated the Gala—kids weren't invited, which meant that he was either stuck in the hotel's day care center with a bunch of other kids (who also didn't want to be there) , or left at home with a book when he was old enough to look after himself. It wasn't until he was 14 that he had been pronounced grown up enough to start attending. As much as the event reminded him of the cultured (boring) affairs at his parent's country club, he had to admit that he much preferred the buffet and the live jazz band to staying home alone, watching French-dubbed Christmas specials in his pajamas.

The clock on the wall chimed loudly, informing Blaine that only one hour remained before the Gala; in only four hours, it would be Christmas.

A month before his 14th birthday, Blaine had been sitting in the same spot in the parlor, working up the courage to interrupt his grandmother while she read the newspaper. It took him half an hour, but finally, he had done it. "Grandma," he'd asked, in such a shaky voice that she had immediately put down the paper and turned to him, "if…if there was something…_wrong_. With me. Would you still love me?"

Grandma had looked at him carefully, as he forced himself not to puke or burst into tears or run out of the room. "There are lots of things wrong with you, Blaine," she'd pointed out gently. "Nobody's perfect, not even your old Grandma."

Blaine, heart in his throat, couldn't bring himself to smile at the familiar joke.

She'd noticed. "Sweetheart," she'd said more seriously, "if you're about to say what I think you are, then I have to tell you—I don't think that's something that's _wrong_ with you. That's just something that you _are_, and I will always, always love you."

Blaine had started to cry, then, and she had pulled him into her arms with an "Oh, Sweetie", stroking his hair as he sobbed into her shirt. "Were you really scared?" she'd asked after a minute, when he'd calmed down enough to cry silently, at least. He'd nodded, and she had moved her hand from his hair to his back, stroking smooth patterns into his spine through his thin t-shirt.

"Do your mom and dad know?" she'd asked him, and he'd answered in the negative.

"I don't think they'd like it very much," he'd admitted, painfully, making her frown.

"It's not their job to like it, Sweetheart," she had insisted quietly. "It's their job to love you anyway. And I know they will, Blaine. You're probably right that it'll take some getting used to on their part—I've met your mother's parents, and your Grandfather…"

She had paused for a moment, hand stilled on Blaine's back.

"Well, it was a different time," she had sighed eventually. "And goodness knows that if it weren't for my sister, I might have felt the same way."

She'd looked back down at Blaine with a watery smile. "But you'll tell them when you're ready to tell them, and that's that."

They hadn't spoken of Blaine's admission again that trip, but for an offhanded comment made by Grandma as they waited on the front porch for his parents, the last day of his visit. "You know, you could get married here someday, if you'd like," she pointed out casually, as his mother's sedan had rounded the corner onto the street.

"I know," he'd replied, squeezing her hand. "You'll be my Maid of Honor, okay?"

When Blaine's parents pulled into the driveway, she was still laughing.

A sharp rapping on the doorframe pulled Blaine from his thoughts. "Ready to go?" his mother asked, looking radiant in her glittering black dress. "Your father's outside, warming the car up."

Blaine nodded, grabbing his umbrella and laptop case as he stood. "You look pretty," he commented, making her beam with pleasure.

"Thank you," she replied earnestly, smoothing an errant hair back into place. "You look so grown up in your suit." Her smile faltered slightly. "Blaine, why are you bringing your computer?" she asked, eyeing the case in his hand.

Blaine pretended to look surprised. "Oh, Grandma said to," he told her, the practiced story coming out easily. "There's a website where you can track Santa's progress around the world, and she thought the kids in the day care might want to see it."

Blaine's mom nodded, slightly mollified. "Well, I suppose she would know best," she allowed, "she did help plan the event. Shall we?"

Blaine nodded, turning off the lights in the parlor as he followed her out into the hall.

* * *

><p>After the first excruciating hour—in which Blaine was expected to 'socialize'; code for 'follow his parents around the room and answer the same dull questions about his school, his grades, and his lack of a girlfriend with undiminished politeness'—Blaine really did have a good time. The crab cakes were the best that Blaine had ever tasted, and it was only through impeccable manners and sheer willpower that he managed to avoid running off with the whole tray. The band was a different one than the previous two years, but the drummer was excellent, and there were plenty of nice, friendly girls to dance with.<p>

He stuck to dancing exclusively with girls—besides the minefield that would have occurred if he'd opted to dance with boys at an expensive social function in front of his parents, dancing with girls felt a lot less like cheating on Kurt, somehow.

In keeping with their hastily made plans, Blaine's grandmother found him about fifteen minutes before his Skype date with Kurt, pulling him out of a relatively pleasant conversation with two girls from Manitoba. Ducking into the coat room, he reclaimed his laptop from the smiling clerk, and then made his way over to the rooftop exit, where Grandma was waiting for him.

* * *

><p>When 11:30 arrived and Kurt's Skype call came, Blaine was seated at one of the small, round tables on the rooftop deck, keyed into the hotel's wireless network and shivering slightly. Grandma, who had been smart enough to wear gloves, was seated out of sight at the next table.<p>

"Here we go," he told her, accepting the call and looking longingly at the screen.

Kurt looked tired; the same holiday lights strung artfully around his room that were tinting his hair several different colors were also creating shadows under his eyes. Still, he smiled into the camera when he saw Blaine. "Hey you," he greeted warmly, voice coming through the speakers clearer than Blaine had dared to hope. "How's the Frigid Wilderness of the Northern Tundra?"

Blaine laughed, his breath misting in front of him. "Almost as cold as you'd expect," he admitted. "I'm outside—can you see me well enough, or do I need to move?"

Kurt smirked at him. "I can see you well enough to know that you're properly dressed for the occasion," he replied, a slight teasing lilt to his voice. He plucked at the shoulder of his long-sleeved t-shirt. "I'll have you know that you're making me feel very underdressed right now," he added reproachfully.

Blaine couldn't help but smile. "Sorry," he lied, shrugging theatrically. "Listen, I have someone I want to introduce you to, if that's all right."

He looked over at Grandma, who smiled back before joining him in front of the screen, hands heavy on his shoulders as she stood behind his chair. "Kurt, this is my Grandma," he introduced, trying to gesture without moving his torso too much, mindful of jostling her. "Grandma, Kurt Hummel."

Kurt's face lit up. "Hello, Mrs. Anderson," he said happily, smile dazzling. "It's so nice to meet you."

Even if Blaine couldn't see her face in the little picture screen, he would have known that she was smiling back. "And you as well, Kurt," she answered, squeezing Blaine's shoulder with her left hand.

Kurt looked at him with the barest hint of a question on his face, and Blaine didn't have to think for very long in order to figure out what he was wondering. "She knows about us," he assured him, glancing up at Grandma with a smile.

Kurt let out a sigh of relief. "Oh, good," he said breathlessly, "then I can tell you what a lovely necklace you're wearing without giving myself away." He arched an eyebrow. "My excellent taste in women's jewelry always does it, in the end," he quipped sadly, making Grandma laugh even as her hand went to her necklace.

"You're very sweet," she declared, steadying herself on Blaine as she bent over to take a closer look at Kurt. "You're a singer, like my Blaine, is that right?" she asked curiously.

Kurt beamed.

Blaine let them get to know each other for a few more minutes, intervening only when it appeared as though Grandma was about to tell Kurt about the time he had run from her house to the lake completely naked, pretending to be an Ancient Greek marathoner. "Grandma, aren't you cold?" he interrupted quickly, not quite ready to share his more embarrassing childhood memories with his boyfriend.

Luckily, Grandma took the hint. "It is rather chilly out here," she agreed, "I think it's supposed to get down to -4 degrees tonight. That's about 25 to you, dear," she clarified for Kurt, who was looking alarmed.

She patted Blaine on the shoulder. "You should come in before midnight, Sweetheart," she warned, "or your parents will be looking for you. I'll leave the door propped open." Blaine nodded, and she turned back to the screen. "It was good to meet you, dear," she said sincerely. "You take care of my grandson, won't you? He's the only one I have, you know."

Blaine sputtered in embarrassment, and Kurt laughed. "Blaine takes pretty good care of himself, Mrs. Anderson," he pointed out. "But of course. I will."

Kurt glared at Blaine once his grandmother had gone inside. "You should have warned me I'd be meeting your relatives," he chastised, pouting slightly. "I wouldn't have changed into pajamas, if I had known."

Blaine laughed. "One relative," he corrected, "who loved you anyway." Kurt's frown lessened, and Blaine shot him his most charming grin. "Besides, I didn't know myself until last night that she'd want to come up here with me," he pointed out. "I was actually planning on showing you something else."

Kurt looked at him warily. "Wait," he asked slowly, "what does 'up here' mean? Where are you?"

Blaine smiled, grabbing his laptop off the table before standing up. "How are you with heights?" he asked nonchalantly, walking toward the railing and watching as Kurt's expression grew more and more suspicious.

"Fine," Kurt answered, "but what—"

"You probably won't be able to see the view as clearly as I wanted," Blaine warned, cutting him off. "And if the screen's shaking a little bit, that's because I'm holding on to you really, really tightly—if I drop the computer from here, it'll _definitely _break. Ready?"

"Ready for what?" Blaine heard Kurt ask, as he turned the screen around and leaned over the railing. "Blaine, what are—oh, wow…"

It was clear when Kurt saw it—all of Toronto spread out below them. The whole scene was intensely colorful, between the neon marquees of the buildings and the shimmering lights wrapped around the trees, and the glass buildings interspersed with the regular ones—varying in size and shape—reflected the multicolored hues, glittering with prismatic rainbows.

It was an incredible sight in person, and even if it was losing some of its vibrancy onscreen, Blaine knew it would still be a gorgeous scene to behold.

"I'm downtown," he explained, slowly moving the screen so that Kurt could see more of the city, big and beautiful and bustling because of the holidays. "It looks pretty from down on the street, too, but you can see so much more from up here—this is the tallest hotel in the whole city."

"It's beautiful," Kurt gushed. "My apologies for all the disparaging remarks I've been making about your native land; they were clearly at least partially inaccurate."

Blaine laughed. "I'm not actually Canadian, but thank you," he replied graciously.

"The view from up here is my favorite thing about Christmas," he added, "especially when it's snowing—it always makes me feel like I'm at the top of a giant snow globe. I just wanted to share it with you."

He sighed, turning the screen back around. "You don't think that's silly, do you?" he asked apprehensively.

Kurt stared at him, incredulous. "Blaine, that's not silly at all," he said firmly. "I'm so happy that you wanted to share it with me." He bit his lip, looking down for a moment before glancing shyly back up at Blaine. "And I'm glad that we get to spend part of Christmas together, even if it's just over the computer," he admitted. "I miss you, even more than I thought I would."

Blaine swallowed, trying not to tear up in front of Kurt. "I miss you too," he promised. "And I have to go back to the party, in a minute. But I wish I didn't have to. I wish I could stay with you until it's time to go home."

Kurt laughed. "What is it with you wanting to miss parties?" he asked rhetorically, leaning forward and resting his chin on his hand. "Get over it by New Year's Eve; I don't want to go to Sasha's alone."

"I'll even drive you home," Blaine promised.

"Merry Christmas, Kurt."

* * *

><p>The rest of Blaine's visit flew by.<p>

Christmas itself was quiet—after the party the evening before, everyone was content to watch holiday specials (in English, this time) and recover. Blaine had plenty of new books to look through and clothes to try on, and his parents had even surprised him with a gift certificate to On That Note ("You've gone there so often with your teammates; we thought it might come in handy," his mother had explained).

The following days were busier, with trips to all of Blaine's favorite places: the art museum, the Virgin Megastore (long since out of business), back to Eaton Centre (where he did, in fact, help pick out little presents for Rose's granddaughters). To the outdoor market where Grandma had bought him his pendant, far less populated on a snowy December day than it had been in July. To the grocery store, where Blaine stocked up on candies that he couldn't by in Ohio, and Grandma stocked up on items from the top shelves, now that Blaine was there to reach them for her.

Finally, it was the morning of the 29th. Blaine's dad had taken the car out to fill up on gas and get snacks for the drive home, while Blaine's mother finished packing their things, leaving suitcases and boxes and bags by the front door. Blaine, whose packing consisted of swapping the completed homework in his backpack with a few of his new books, sat in the parlor with his grandmother, drinking one last cup of tea.

"There's a dance at school, at the end of January," Blaine said suddenly, after a few moments of peaceful silence. "It's hosted by the Gay Straight Alliance, so it would be a lot safer than last time. Plus, Carmel has security guards, and nobody's said anything to me about being gay, even though Kurt and I hold hands in the hallway."

Grandma looked at him, her face carefully neutral. "It sounds like you've made up your mind, then," she said, taking another sip of tea.

Blaine looked down. "I don't know," he admitted. "I want to _want _to go, if that makes any sense."

Grandma nodded. "I think I know what you mean," she said. "You know in your head that it wouldn't be like the other dance, but you still don't _feel_ right about it yet."

Blaine nodded back. "That sounds right," he agreed, voice dull. "I don't know what to do, Grandma."

Grandma frowned. "What does Kurt have to say about all this?" she wondered.

Blaine shrugged. "We haven't talked about it yet," he admitted. "I haven't brought it up."

Grandma smiled, shaking her head. "Well, that sounds like the thing to do, then, doesn't it?"

* * *

><p>It was New Year's Eve, and Blaine <em>still <em>hadn't seen Kurt.

Mostly, it was Great Aunt Mildred's fault. Or rather, the Snowpocalypse on the Eastern Seaboard that had caused her original train back to Virginia to be cancelled. She'd managed to get a seat on one leaving that afternoon, and thankfully it had taken off without a hitch.

"Thank _God,_" Kurt had moaned over the phone earlier that evening. "I was ready to shovel a path myself."

Besides Mildred's extended visit, they were kept apart—not on purpose, Blaine reminded himself—by Blaine's parents, who had scheduled all of his medical and dental appointments for the couple of days before the New Year. Even when his appointment with Dr. Ramirez was cancelled (she had the flu, apparently), he still barely had any time to himself once he got home.

Therefore, Blaine was more than a little excited to see Kurt as he _finally_ drove to Sasha's house, dressed in an outfit he knew that Kurt loved.

Sasha, like Kurt, lived out in Lima. Blaine drove on autopilot for most to the trip, familiar with the route, but began paying extra attention to his GPS when he got to Sasha's neighborhood—because of the long driveways and lack of streetlights in her area, she had mentioned, her house could be a little difficult to find.

And maybe under normal circumstances, that was true. That night, however, Blaine couldn't imagine overlooking the house:

For one thing, the house itself was three stories tall and practically _glowing_ with strand upon strand of Christmas lights, wrapped around every available surface—strung so densely that Blaine couldn't even tell what color the paint was.

For another, the music emanating from the house was so loud, Blaine could hear it from his car as soon as he turned onto the block.

The street was packed with parked cars, and Blaine ended up abandoning his Honda about eight houses away. The music grew even louder as he climbed out of the car, mingling with the sounds of shrieking and laughter, and Blaine paused in his tracks as the brief noise of something glass smashing rang out, followed by a string of curses. Feeling more than a little nervous, Blaine squinted, scanning the shadowy street for Kurt's familiar Navigator.

"It's over there."

A sudden voice behind Blaine made him jump. Spinning around quickly, he let out a small sigh of relief—the speaker was a tall, thin, blonde girl, watching him curiously. Her long coat looked warm enough, but her bright red skirt hit several inches above her knees, and Blaine felt cold just looking at her.

She was still staring when he looked back up, and it was only then that Blaine remembered that he hadn't said anything back. "I'm sorry?" he asked politely, recovering his manners a bit.

The girl pointed at Sasha's house. "The party," she clarified, "it's over there. You looked lost. Don't worry, I'll take you."

And without hesitating, she linked her arm through Blaine's and began walking him to the party.

Blaine, completely unprepared to deal with such an unexpected situation, allowed himself to be pulled.

"Do you go to McKinley?" she wanted to know, as the two of them walked up the path to the house.

Blaine shook his head. "No. Sorry," he apologized, when the girl's face fell slightly.

"It's okay," she reassured him, sighing. "I just wasn't sure if I had to make out with you or not."

Blaine stumbled a bit. "What—why would you have to…" he tried asking, certain that he couldn't have heard her right.

The girl shot him a pitying smile. "I don't _have _to," she clarified, much to Blaine's relief. "I just have a Perfect Kissing Record, and if you went to McKinley, I'd have to make out with you to keep it."

She looked him up and down, and Blaine felt himself squirming under the scrutiny. "I could make out with you anyway," she added hopefully.

Blaine shuddered. "No thank you," he said quickly. "Uh, gay. I'm gay."

The girl brightened at his revelation. "Oh, I can hook you up with somebody," she insisted. "Some of the guys I've slept with are _total _closet cases."

"That's really all right," Blaine insisted, "I have a boyfriend. And actually," he added, "do you think you could help me find him? I've never been here before, so I'm not sure where to start looking."

The girl agreed easily, and Blaine held the front door open for her. Before he could begin to describe Kurt to her, however, she turned back to him with an eager look on her face.

"Does your boyfriend go to McKinley?" she wanted to know.

* * *

><p>Blaine ended up ditching the girl at the first possible opportunity, thanking her for her help. After ten minutes of searching for Kurt, however, he had to admit that he probably could have used her help, inappropriate propositioning or not—he'd been all over the first floor of the house, and while he did recognize a fair number of people from Carmel, Kurt was nowhere to be seen.<p>

And Blaine was already getting tired of Sasha's party—unlike the Halloween party at Jesse's house, which had felt friendly and at least somewhat low-key, this party felt like something out of a bad teen movie. People were shouting to be heard over the music, which was loud enough to make Blaine's ears ring and head hurt, and the rooms were so crowded between the furniture and closely-packed, sweaty bodies that there was no room to dance. The air was warm and stale, and Blaine was beginning to feel a little sick to his stomach.

He was just about to give up and wait for Kurt on the front porch, when he heard the shout.

"Blaine!"

Before Blaine could react, a pair of familiar hands gripped his shoulders and spun him around. Kurt's cheeks were flushed, and his hair was a little messier than Blaine had ever seen it, but Blaine felt himself smiling as he drank Kurt in—his boyfriend was as gorgeous as ever, especially after such a long separation. Kurt grinned back, throwing himself into Blaine's arms, and Blaine staggered back slightly under their combined weight. A harsh, alcoholic undertone was mixed with Kurt's normal shampoo-and-cologne fragrance, and Blaine raised an eyebrow at him when he finally let go.

"Starting the party without me?" he teased, making Kurt sigh dramatically.

"Check your phone; I called you about a dozen times," he pouted. "And you'd be hitting the bottle too, if you spent that much time with The Crankiest Woman in the Western Hemisphere."

He smiled. "_And_ I'm not driving tonight," he reminded Blaine cheerfully.

Blaine dutifully checked his phone. It wasn't anywhere close to a dozen, but he had missed a few calls from Kurt, all of them fairly recently. "I'm sorry," he apologized, even though he could tell Kurt wasn't actually mad at him. "It's so loud in here, I can't hear anything."

Kurt nodded enthusiastically. "Neither can I," he agreed, grabbing Blaine's hand. "Let's go outside; it's a lot quieter out there."

Blaine, desperate to get out of the house, let himself be pulled. Again.

Kurt's definition of 'a lot quieter' was a little inaccurate: there was a second stereo blasting music out on the patio, and a number of people were chatting in groups, or flitting around the edge of the hot tub—which was already stuffed with people in their bathing suits or underwear. But there _was_ more space to walk around, it was true, and Blaine no longer felt like he needed to shout in order to be heard, which was definitely a point in its favor.

Plus, he could breathe again, which was nice.

Kurt quickly commandeered one of the only remaining lawn chairs, draping himself in the seat before motioning for Blaine to join him. Blaine complied, easing himself down carefully—the chair looked a little flimsy, and he'd seen similar ones collapse before—as Kurt called out to Sasha, who was talking animatedly to a couple that Blaine didn't recognize.

Sasha waved at them, before hastily wrapping up her conversation and making her way over. "It's about time," she complained, "this party was threatening to become seriously boring." She dropped down on the end of the lawn chair with far less care than Blaine had, her drink sloshing slightly over the rim. "Here," she offered, passing the fruit punch-colored concoction to Kurt, "I have no idea what's in it."

Kurt rolled his eyes and took a gulp, frowning at it slightly before going back for a second large sip.

Blaine looked back and forth between the pair of them, slightly incredulous.

Sasha noticed, and patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, I know it's nothing poisonous," she promised. "James made it, and he's never killed anyone."

"And we're all right to share drinks with," Kurt assured him. "Anyone whose medical records indicate that they haven't been exposed to mono gets deliberately infected with it during the off-season, and anything else will get killed off by the sheer number of vitamins I'm taking."

"Nice of you to imply that I'm diseased," Sasha quipped, prompting a dismissive hand gesture from Kurt.

Blaine shook his head. "I was actually in shock that a party this size could be at all boring to you," he admitted. "Do you have any idea how insane it's getting in there?"

Kurt and Sasha exchanged a look, before smiling at him. "You clearly haven't been to enough of our parties," Sasha commented. "This is nothing. Here, let me get you a drink."

Blaine tried to protest that he'd be driving home later, but was shushed almost immediately. "You've got at least three hours to sober up," Sasha pointed out, as Kurt leaned far enough forward to tug at Blaine's shirt, encouraging him to lean back into Kurt's chest. "I'm getting you a drink, and you're going to relax and loosen up a bit. Host's orders."

Blaine nodded contritely. Sasha smirked, before turning away from him. "James!" she yelled across the patio, where her boyfriend was leaning on the edge of the hot tub. When he looked up, she smiled. "Can you make three more of those whatever-they-ares?"

* * *

><p>Sasha and James hung out with them for a little while, before heading inside the house to make sure nothing expensive had been broken yet. Blaine and Kurt were hardly left alone, however—an ever-changing group of people had gathered around their chair, talking and laughing and keeping them company. Many brought snacks or bottles from inside, and although Blaine turned down most of them, still conscious of the fact that he had to drive later, he had still managed to get pleasantly buzzed off of the occasional sip. Kurt, whose social prowess was mesmerizing in such a casual setting, was definitely further gone, although Blaine was pretty sure that he himself had been far worse on Halloween (something he was infinitely grateful for; he couldn't imagine ever working up the courage to kiss that wonderful, beautiful boy next to him otherwise).<p>

Before Sasha had gone back inside, she'd identified Blaine's mystery girl for him. "That's Brittany," she had said with an eye roll, not even having to think about it when Blaine described the 'kind of scary blonde girl who kisses everyone at McKinley'. "She lives down the street—sweet girl, dumb as a post. If you weren't knocking boots with my favorite Gay Boyfriend, I'd tell you to get on that."

Blaine wisely refrained from asking Sasha any more questions about Brittany, and was somewhat relieved when she left.

Without warning, Kurt sat up quickly, bouncing slightly off of Blaine's shoulder. "It's 11:30!" he announced enthusiastically to the group. "Blaine, we need to go."

Blaine, glancing at the confused expressions of their friends around them, took Kurt's hand in both of his. "Where do we need to go?" he asked patiently. "It's so close to midnight; don't you want to stay?"

Kurt shook his head rapidly. "No, no, no," he dismissed, "not _leave_, go. We have to get ready for the _fireworks_, go. Come with me, get up." Crawling over Blaine and Mandy (the latest of many to share their lawn chair), Kurt climbed unsteadily to his feet before holding out a hand to Blaine. Blaine took it, careful not to let Kurt take any of his weight as he stood—starting the new year with a head injury wasn't on his to-do list—and let himself be led back across the patio.

The group they'd been hanging out with erupted in whistles and catcalls as they walked toward the sliding glass doors that opened into the living room. Blaine blushed scarlet, looking down at his feet before shyly chancing a glance at Kurt.

Kurt gave them the finger and a sarcastic wave, before smiling at Blaine and pulling him into the house.

* * *

><p>Blaine ended up following Kurt all the way through the house and up to Sasha's attic, stopping only long enough to grab Kurt's bag from the giant pile of coats and purses in the front hall. The room was narrow, musty, and dark, and the only light in the room was coming from a small window across from the rickety wooden staircase.<p>

"Okay," Blaine said slowly, squinting as he looked around the room, trying to figure out what Kurt's plan was. "What are we doing in here?"

Kurt squeezed his hand reassuringly, before letting go and weaving through boxes as he crossed the creaky attic floor. "Not in here," he corrected with a brief backward glance, as he unlatched and opened the window. "Out here. It's safe, I promise."

And before Blaine could stop him, Kurt was climbing out the window and crawling out of sight.

Attempting to banish the sudden, horrible images of a slightly drunk Kurt slipping and falling three stories to the ground, Blaine hurried over to the window and followed him out onto the roof. The shingles were rough on his hands, but the angle was less steep than Blaine had imagined, and he immediately relaxed when he saw Kurt ten feet away, lying on his back with his hands tucked behind his head.

Kurt smiled lazily when he noticed Blaine crawling toward him. "They set off the fireworks in the cul-de-sac," he informed Blaine, pointing down Sasha's street without looking. "I was here for the 4th of July. The view is spec_tacular._"

Blaine couldn't help but return Kurt's smile, especially when Kurt immediately latched onto him as he stretched out on the roof, a hand on his chest and a leg thrown possessively over one of Blaine's.

"I have a bottle of sparkling cider in my bag," Kurt murmured into his shirt, eyes closed. "Pedo Chris gave it to me when he realized there wasn't any alcohol in it."

Blaine snorted. "That was nice of him, I guess," he replied, thinking of the 24 year-old Carmel legend. A 6th-time senior who hadn't attended classes in nearly five years, he instead spent all of his time at Vocal Adrenaline rehearsal, trying to pick up underclasswomen who hadn't heard about him yet, or training for the US Olympic gymnastics team—he'd been an alternate the previous year in Beijing.

("It's the best deal he's going to get," Kurt had disagreed, when Blaine had once mentioned feeling sorry for anyone stuck in high school for nearly a decade. "Trust me—Dad and I ate at the restaurant he works at on the weekends once, and he asked me how to spell 'salmon'.")

Kurt's thoughts obviously weren't lingering on Pedo Chris the way that Blaine's were: Blaine realized suddenly that Kurt was tapping on his chest insistently, clearly waiting for him to respond in some way. "I'm sorry," he apologized, stilling Kurt's movements with the hand that wasn't already wrapped around his boyfriend's back. "I was just thinking. What did you say?"

Kurt huffed impatiently, but smiled anyway. "New Year's Resolutions," he repeated, "are you going to make any?"

He blinked expectantly at Blaine, eyes so hopeful and shining that Blaine felt something in his heart stir. "What are yours going to be?" he asked instead of answering, not sure that he wanted to tell Kurt his _real _resolution if Kurt's ended up being something lighthearted and silly.

He toyed absently with Kurt's fingers, where they were still splayed across his heart. Kurt watched them, seemingly entranced. "The usual," he replied, not looking up from their entwined hands. "Lose five pounds."

Blaine made a noise of disbelief, making Kurt shrug as he finally looked back up at him. "My thighs could use it," he explained, and before Blaine could stop himself, his eyes were trailing up and down Kurt's legs—which did not go unnoticed by Kurt, whose peal of laughter was absolutely delighted. "You're staring at them," he accused happily, the aforementioned leg slipping dangerously high up Blaine's thigh as he propped himself up on one elbow.

"I am," Blaine admitted with a smile, knowing he was caught. "And they're perfect—you're perfect. Come up with a new resolution."

Kurt lunged forward, capturing Blaine's mouth in a wet, slightly sloppy kiss. Blaine tightened his grip on Kurt's back, his other hand flying to Kurt's thigh—which he now loved even more, for sparking the conversation that ended like this—to steady him.

Quick as he had started the kiss, though, Kurt pulled back, laughing. "Sorry, I'm sorry," he breathed, still smiling, "got sidetracked. Resolutions—and don't think I didn't notice the way you didn't answer me before, Mr. Anderson."

Blaine pouted slightly at Kurt pulling away from him, but settled for sliding his hand up to Kurt's waist, pressing his lips into Kurt's hair while Kurt began rambling. "Okay, okay," Kurt decided, "a Blaine-approved New Year's Resolution: I'm going to work harder in English class this year. My writing is good, but it's not outstanding, and I want to have a really fabulous essay to send in with my application to The Academy. Plus, the SATs are junior year, and college application essays are after that, and the sooner I start working, the more time I have to improve and prepare for when my writing really counts."

He turned toward Blaine, his temple brushing past Blaine's jaw. "What about you?" he asked, smiling beautifully. "What's yours?"

Blaine bit his lip, then sighed. "I want to be braver," he admitted. "Like you."

Kurt's smile melted as he stared at Blaine, clearly confused. "How am I brave?" he wanted to know. "You're the brave one."

He frowned. "Actually, you're one of the bravest people I know," he added.

Blaine shook his head, doubtful. "You just are," he answered succinctly, not wanting to go into detail and drag down Kurt's high spirits: how he wished he could be as open and nonchalant as Kurt was—at school, in public; even at home, where his dad knew about Blaine and didn't mind that his son was dating another boy. How he still felt awkward around strangers, sometimes, or how he clung to Kurt at other times because he _knew_ that Kurt could handle anything that came their way, whereas Blaine would just freeze at the first sign of conflict.

How he didn't just want to be the Old Blaine anymore, but a new, improved version of himself—one that didn't flinch at sudden noises, or feel shaky and apprehensive when walking across a parking lot after dark.

Fortunately, Kurt didn't push him for an explanation—at least not yet. "I'll argue that point when I can think straighter," he threatened Blaine, before a shadow of confusion crossed his face. "Or not _straighter_," he amended. "When I can—oh God, I'm rambling. Never mind," he lamented dramatically, dropping his head back onto Blaine's shoulder with a thunk. "Take this," he requested, passing Blaine his bag. "I'm going to drop it."

Blaine took the bag—weaving slightly in the air, thanks to the odd angle Kurt was holding it at—and did his best to balance it on the apex of the roof, a foot or so above his head. When he was sure it wasn't going to fall, he settled back onto the shingles, wrapping his arms around Kurt once again. Kurt made a contented noise, snuggling in closer and mouthing gently at Blaine's neck.

"You always smell so nice," he murmured, his breath hot and tickling Blaine's skin in the best way possible. "I love the way your hair smells."

Blaine opened his mouth—to say 'Thank you', maybe, or 'You always smell amazing; how do you always smell so perfect?'

"Come to the Winter Ball with me," he said instead.

Kurt's ministrations on his neck stopped as he pulled back, eyes blinking open anxiously. "You know about that?" he asked, surprised, and something in Blaine's heart sank.

"They have fliers up all over the school about it," Blaine reminded Kurt; "of course I do."

Kurt nodded slowly, processing. "Wow," he exhaled, his expression not really changing.

Blaine could feel his hands tightening around Kurt, and he willed them to relax. "Do you not want to go?" he asked, suddenly a little uneasy—he hadn't meant to start this conversation, but he had assumed that Kurt hadn't mentioned the dance because of _Blaine's _inadequacies. The idea that Kurt actually wouldn't _want _to go with him for some reason hadn't even occurred to him.

Some of his nerves must have begun showing on his face, because Kurt was reaching out, stroking Blaine's forehead, cheeks, hair. "No, no, no, it's not that," he soothed, sounding concerned. "I just didn't want to upset you."

Blaine wasn't sure if there even was a _right _thing that Kurt could have said in that moment, but that definitely wasn't it. He shifted back, pulling away from Kurt's hand. "I'm a little more upset that you knew about the dance and didn't tell me on purpose," he retorted, surprised by how _angry_ his voice sounded. Maybe he was a little angry, sure, but only tangentially: he was definitely more hurt and upset, than anything else.

He took a deep breath. "Did you think I couldn't handle it?" he asked more steadily, looking searchingly at Kurt.

Kurt, whose eyes were wide and looking shocked. "No, not at all," he replied quickly. "Blaine, that's not it, all right?" He reached for Blaine again, and this time Blaine didn't pull away, too focused on what Kurt was going to say to bother.

Kurt sighed. "I—" he started, before shaking his head slowly. "I just didn't want you to feel like you _had _to go, just because I wanted to," he explained, dropping his gaze. "That's all, I swear."

Blaine closed his eyes briefly, not sure how he felt anymore. "Then why didn't you just say that?" he asked, not liking how tired his voice sounded.

Kurt scoffed lightly. "Okay," he said dryly. "Please find a good way to say, 'Hey, I know something traumatizing happened to you at your last school dance that _you_ never talk about and _I'm _afraid to ask about, but come to another one—I promise that whatever it was won't happen again'."

Blaine's muscles sagged, and he looked away from Kurt, all the life drained out of him.

He was right. Blaine didn't like it, and maybe Kurt would have worded things more tactfully if he hadn't been drinking earlier—although Blaine _had _sort of pressed him into saying it, so he couldn't even be upset, not really. Either way, his point, while not perfect, was a surprisingly good one.

Kurt must have misinterpreted Blaine's silence, however, because his voice was raw as he spoke again, curling his body into himself a bit. "I just didn't want you to make yourself go, if you weren't ready, just to make me happy," he said quietly, sadly.

Blaine looked back at him. Kurt was blinking at him contritely, clearly no happier about the turn in the conversation than he was. His heart clenched, and he reached out for Kurt—who quickly scrambled into his arms, clinging to him tightly like he was afraid that Blaine might change his mind and let go.

"You can't try and protect me like that anymore, all right?" Blaine said softly into Kurt's hair, rocking him slightly in his arms instinctively. "I know I messed up with the whole Jesse thing, and I'm sorry about that. But I have to decide what's upsetting to me, not you—remember?"

Blaine felt Kurt shudder slightly into his chest. "Would you have felt bad for saying no, if I had asked you to the Ball?" Kurt wanted to know, voice muffled a bit by Blaine's sweater.

Blaine couldn't lie. "Yes," he admitted, stroking Kurt's hair.

Kurt looked up at him. "Then why would I do that?" he asked miserably. "Why would I set you up like that?"

"Because I want to dance with you at Prom next year," Blaine confessed, before he could stop himself.

Kurt tensed suddenly in Blaine's arms, his eyes watching Blaine's face carefully. "Really?" he asked, almost shyly, his fingers tightening their grip on Blaine's shirt.

Blaine sighed. "Really," he admitted, trying to be as brave in that moment as he always wished he could be. "I want to buy a flower to pin to your jacket that matches your eyes, and let you fix my hair." When Kurt didn't say anything in response, Blaine looked at him nervously.

Kurt was watching him softly and, with a smile, he brought his hand up, tangling his fingers in Blaine's hair and silently encouraging him to go on.

Blaine took a deep breath.

"We'll take a million pictures that neither of us want to pose for, but we have to, because that's what you do before prom," he continued, the words pouring out of him like a confession. Which, in a lot of ways, it was—Blaine spent so much time trying _not _to think of a future together with Kurt like this, afraid that it was too much, too soon. He was finding, though, that the rest of him didn't really care what his common sense—the part of him that constantly hissed in Blaine's ear that _two and a half months wasn't anything_—had to say.

"We'll get an obscenely expensive hotel room instead of going home, and I'll let you pretend to seduce me," he fantasized, feeling Kurt gasp next to him. "And we'll go out to breakfast with our friends the next morning and talk about how tacky the decorations were, and I'll steal all the bacon off of your plate and give you all of the fruit that you like from my fruit salad, even if I secretly want it anyway. I want everything," he admitted, watching Kurt slowly run a trembling hand up his side. "Every school dance cliché there is, I want it. With you."

Kurt's eyes were dark. "I want that, too," he said quietly, leaning over and kissing the warm, sensitive spot behind Blaine's ear.

Blaine sighed as Kurt's lips trailed downward, pressing soft, openmouthed kisses into Blaine's neck. "But I'm still scared," he admitted, trying not to lose himself in the heady sensation of Kurt's tongue tracing delicate patterns into Blaine's skin. "And I think I'm always going to be scared, until I do something about it, and I'm never going to have a better, safer opportunity to finally move on. Because I want to, Kurt—I want to be _right _again, so badly."

He pulled back slightly to look down at Kurt. "You're not even listening anymore, are you?" he mused, heavier emotions turning into amusement and something darker, hotter, at the sight of Kurt's swollen, red lips and lust-blown eyes.

"No, no, I was," Kurt insisted breathily, "I'm listening. I just really liked the 'seducing you' part, so I was working on that."

He leaned over again, nipping at Blaine's throat and making him gasp. "How am I doing so far?" he teased, voice low and seductive.

The serious mood entirely gone, Blaine yanked Kurt on top of him, sliding his hands up the back of Kurt's sweater and making him sit up, shrieking with laughter. "You jerk, your hands are freezing!" he scolded, before grabbing Blaine's wrists and pinning them onto the roof, one on each side of Blaine's head.

"That's better," he decided, before diving in and kissing him.

The kiss was hot and wet from the start, and Blaine fought down the urge to struggle against Kurt's hold, mindful of their precarious position on the roof. Instead, he wrapped his leg around Kurt and pulled, causing Kurt to collapse fully on top of him. Kurt moaned in satisfaction into his mouth, making Blaine's whole body vibrate with sensation, and it was only a minute later when he felt a harsh scraping up his back that he yanked his wrist out of Kurt's grip, grasping above him until he felt the peak of the roof.

"Kurt. _Kurt,_" he muttered, wrenching his mouth away from Kurt's, "we're sliding."

Kurt looked at him blankly for a few seconds before getting it. When he did, though, his eyes went comically wide as he scrambled off of Blaine and back onto the roof. "Oh, okay. Wow," he gasped, laughing weakly. "That got a little life-threatening there, for a second. We should probably pick a less tilted surface to make out on, next time."

Blaine let his head drop back onto the roof, feeling boneless, and Kurt curled back up into his side, the way they'd been before. "Better?" Kurt asked, making Blaine smile faintly.

"Better," he echoed, "much less chance of falling off the roof like this."

He was immediately proven wrong as an incredibly loud _bang _made him jump, Kurt's arm across his stomach the only thing keeping him from sliding farther down the roof.

"Fireworks," Kurt assured him with a grin, obviously trying not to laugh. "It's just the fireworks starting; look."

Kurt was right. A faint whistling sound filled the air, culminating in a bright red explosion almost directly above their heads. A blue one followed, then gold, and soon the air was filled with acrid smoke and colorful streaks of light as the display began in earnest.

Kurt's eyelashes brushed lazily against Blaine's chin, and Blaine stoked his back gently, thinking he was falling asleep. After a minute, however, Blaine felt Kurt smile into his neck.

"You know you can change your mind about the dance anytime, and I won't be mad, right?" he asked gently, and Blaine held him tighter.

"I know," he promised. And he did know. Even if Kurt hadn't gone about it the way Blaine would have liked, his intentions, at least, had been good—he'd only been trying to spare Blaine's feelings.

Kurt nodded sleepily, eyes fluttering shut. "Then ask me again," he directed, the arm slung across Blaine's body moving as he searched for Blaine's hand.

Blaine smiled, lacing his fingers into Kurt's. "Will you go to the Winter Ball with me?" he asked again, smile growing as he felt Kurt nodding beside him.

"Yes," Kurt whispered, squeezing Blaine's hand. "Yes, I will, yes."

* * *

><p>Lying on the roof watching the fireworks, his gorgeous, sleeping boyfriend in his arms, Blaine couldn't help but think about the year that had just ended. If he had known a year ago what the coming months would have held, what his reaction would have been.<p>

Beside him, Kurt stirred, nuzzling into Blaine's neck for a moment before relaxing again, his breathing evening back out as Blaine watched him.

Blaine smiled. Overall, it had been a pretty shitty year. But if that moment, if that beautiful boy, had been the end result of all the crap he'd been put through before getting to Carmel…

maybe it was worth it.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17/30-ish? Something like that.

Hey, remember the time I said I'd have this chapter done in time for the New Year? Fail. Sorry. My only excuse is that my promised good news was not _quite_ as good as I'd hoped, and related things have kept me busy. But it's still good enough to share with you all, so here it goes: barring any more unreasonable complications with my final treatments, I'll be totes, 100% carcinoma-free in the very near future. High Five.

The next chapter shouldn't take so long, and I promise one or two _very_ exciting developments. As usual, I don't own anything but a Warbler's shirt and a dream…

* * *

><p>Kurt slept in the living room often enough that waking up in the couch, nestled in the cushions and tightly wrapped in a blanket, wasn't anything out of the ordinary. What was unusual was the reason he was on the couch in the first place: it was New Year's Day, and Blaine was downstairs in his room, sleeping in his bed.<p>

Which would have been a far more enticing prospect if Kurt hadn't woken up feeling like death warmed over.

Peeling off the blanket—he must have knocked into the thermostat the night before, because the room was quite a bit warmer than it should have been and he was sweating profusely—Kurt gingerly stood up. And immediately winced—his head was mostly fine, if a little sore, but he was painfully dizzy, and his stomach lurched uncomfortably in a way that spoke of too much alcohol the night before. Afraid that his legs might collapse underneath him, he grabbed onto the back of the couch, standing still and digging his nails into the fabric while his body acclimated itself to being upright again. When the dizziness passed (and he was more certain that he wasn't in danger of puking on the carpet) he slowly padded into the kitchen.

Five minutes and two glasses of ice water later, Kurt felt ready to brave the stairs. Gripping the railing for balance, he tiptoed quietly down the steps, making a point of skipping the stair toward the bottom that had a tendency to squeak, just in case Blaine was a light sleeper.

The room was dark, the weak winter dawn beginning to creep through the small windows providing just enough light to see by. On his nightstand, the luminous red numbers of his clock radio reminded him that his alarm would be going off in less than half an hour—which sounded like a terrible idea, given that Blaine was still asleep and his own head was likely not equipped to handle any extra noise. Stealthily crossing the room, Kurt didn't even bother fiddling with the buttons, choosing instead to unplug the alarm clock and watch the glowing surface fade to black.

Unwelcome threat of noise taken care of and eyes adjusted to the darkness, Kurt looked directly at Blaine for the first time that morning:

Blaine was curled up on his side in Kurt's bed a few feet away, blanket pulled up to his chest. His arms were wrapped snugly around one of Kurt's pillows, and his face was half-buried in the light blue pillowcase. He needed a haircut in the worst way—his curls were spilling everywhere—and his mouth was slightly open, and Kurt couldn't _believe_ that his drunken self had insisted on being chivalrous and taking the couch when _sharing his bed_ with this boy, wrapping himself around Blaine for an entire night, had been an option.

He was having himself tested for brain damage at the earliest possible opportunity.

A sudden whiff of sweat and twinge in his stomach reminded Kurt why he had come downstairs in the first place, and he sadly resisted the urge to climb into bed and go back to sleep—which was probably for the best, as he'd probably just end up waking Blaine anyway. Or worse, get caught sleeping together by his dad, who would most certainly deny them the benefit of the doubt. With that sobering thought in mind, Kurt quickly grabbed two sets of clothing from his dresser, leaving one outfit folded neatly on the pillow next to Blaine's head and taking the second with him into the bathroom.

After debating the issue for half a minute, Kurt chose to leave the door unlocked as he dropped his pajamas on the floor and stepped into the lukewarm shower. There was probably zero chance that Blaine would wake up, hear the rushing water, and decide to join him, but a boy could dream.

After all, he was hungover, not dead.

* * *

><p>Kurt was spooning yogurt and brown sugar on top of three bowls of fruit salad when he heard footsteps on the basement stairs, and he turned just in time to see Blaine emerge, hair damp from the shower and fingers peeking out of the slightly-too-long sleeves of Kurt's shirt. He smiled sleepily when he saw Kurt, who stifled a groan: it was completely unfair of Blaine to be so good looking before 9:00 a.m. (particularly when he himself was so ridiculously queasy and disgusting). The pants Kurt had left out for him were about half an inch too long, and the cuffs hit the kitchen floor with a soft <em>thump <em>with every step Blaine took toward him.

"Good morning," Blaine greeted him, voice slightly scratchy, before kissing him on the cheek. Not quite content with that, Kurt snaked his arms around Blaine's waist before he had the chance to step back, leaning in and kissing him properly on the lips. Blaine melted into him, wrapping his arms around Kurt's shoulders and humming audibly with pleasure.

It was a good way to officially wake up.

After a minute or so, Kurt pulled back, resting his forehead on Blaine's with a warm smile. "I like you in my clothes," he murmured, tracing the seam of Blaine's sleeve with his fingers. "You should wear them all the time."

It was true—something about seeing Blaine in _his _clothes, wearing items _he_ had picked out, filled Kurt with something that felt…possessive, almost. It was an unexpected and unfamiliar sensation, perhaps, but not an entirely unwelcome one.

If Blaine found it weird, it didn't show on his face. In fact, he was smiling understandingly, his eyes shining as he looked at Kurt. "I think the same thing every time I see you in the sweater you stole from me," he admitted, voice light and teasing.

Kurt pulled away with an indignant huff. "I resent the implication that I'm a thief, Mr. Anderson," he said haughtily, watching with pleasure as Blaine schooled his amused features into a more solemn expression, pretending to take Kurt seriously. "I'll have you know that I was merely _borrowing_ your sweater," he continued in a satisfied tone. "And really, the only reason that I did that was because it smells like you. Which is more your fault than mine."

Blaine's eyes were shining. "Is that right," he replied, clearly trying not to laugh. "Well, in that case, I apologize for the unfair accusation." He glanced at the counter, where the bowls of fruit were still sitting. "I'd offer to make breakfast, to make it up to you, but it looks like I'm too late," he added wryly.

Kurt smiled, returning to the abandoned counter and sealing the bag of brown sugar before it started to harden. "We have ingredients for omelets, if you want one," he told Blaine, "but you'd have to follow through on your offer and make it yourself—I don't think I've sufficiently recovered from last night to deal with the smell."

Blaine had perked up at the word 'eggs', and his hand had drifted absently from his sternum down to his stomach. "Would it be all right if I did?" he asked tentatively, raising his eyebrows at Kurt. "I don't want to make you feel worse."

Kurt waved his hand dismissively. "I wouldn't have offered if I didn't think I could handle it," he pointed out, grabbing a frying pan from one of the cabinets and passing it to Blaine. "But would you mind scrambling an extra plate for my dad? He'll be down soon, and he's made his opinion on fruit as a meal insufferably clear."

Blaine agreed, and Kurt directed him toward the canola oil spray while digging thorough the refrigerator for vegetables, low fat cheese, and organic ketchup. Blaine didn't say anything in response to the wide assortment of ingredients, but did look quizzically at Kurt when, instead of the traditional carton of eggs, Kurt handed him a pourable container of egg substitute.

"It's healthier," he explained. "Real eggs have much more cholesterol unless you skip the yolks, which Dad won't, and his last doctor's visit didn't go so well, so."

Blaine looked at him sympathetically as he lit the stove burner. "What happened?" he wanted to know.

Kurt sighed. "His cholesterol and blood pressure were both up from where they were six months ago," he admitted. "Dad tried to pretend that they'd stayed about the same, but he forgets who did all the Googling so that we could even read the reports in the first place."

He shuddered at the memory of the confrontation that had occurred that evening. "I was _so_ mad," he added, turning away from Blaine and busying himself with the coffeemaker, well aware that the residual anger was probably showing on his face. "I do the grocery shopping and I cook dinner as often as I can, but he spends so much time at work and doesn't exercise, and half the time I'll come home from rehearsal and find out that he's ordered takeout, or stopped for a fast food burger, or eaten something equally horrible because he wasn't sure whether to wait for me or not. If I didn't keep after him all the time, I'm sure he'd live off of pizza and pork rinds."

He glanced over his shoulder at Blaine, whose attention was split between Kurt and the frying pan. The sight was adorable, and Kurt felt his annoyance softening. "After we fought about the doctor, I did a raid on the garage," he confided, smiling when Blaine's expression turned delightedly incredulous. "I found all of his hiding spots, and replaced his 'snacks' with fruits and vegetables. Then I threw everything in the mini-fridge out and filled it with string cheese. He wasn't happy with me after that one."

"Damn right, I wasn't." Kurt turned from the coffee pot—his dad was in the doorway, already dressed for work.

He nodded at Kurt as he entered the kitchen. "Try a stunt like that again, and I'm taking back your office keys," he warned, easing himself into his usual place at the table.

Kurt rolled his eyes, placing a bowl of fruit and yogurt in front of Burt before distributing the rest of the dishes and utensils. "You're lucky I'm still allowing dairy and lean meats," he shot back, frowning slightly. "I considered going vegan as a last resort, and we could have lived off of Jesse's girlfriend's baked delicacies until I left for college." He watched with satisfaction as the barb had its intended effect—Burt shuddered as he speared a strawberry on his fork, eating it with a look of grudging acquiescence. Mollified, Kurt pulled three mugs down from the cabinet, adding a splash of milk and cinnamon sugar to his and Blaine's as the coffee finished brewing.

Blaine had been quiet since Burt had entered the kitchen, either absorbed in his task of finishing the eggs, or reluctant to get involved in the Hummels' bickering—Kurt wasn't sure, but was willing to hazard a guess as to which one it was. It wasn't until he sat down at the table with two plates of messily scrambled eggs that Burt actively acknowledged his presence.

"Happy New Year, kid," he offered gruffly, eyeing his breakfast before looking across the table at Kurt. "Isn't it a little early in the day for a visit?"

Kurt, even tired and with a growing headache, knew what his dad was implying, and hastily stepped in before Blaine had the chance to react nervously. "Blaine was my designated driver last night," he answered, ironically aware of the effort it was taking him to sound offhanded. "I let him have my bed, and I slept on the couch."

He watched knowingly for his dad's reaction and, sure enough, Burt's frown immediately deepened. Kurt took a sip of coffee. "Would you prefer me to have sent him back out on the road on New Year's Eve?" he asked pointedly, knowing that Burt's train of thought would be similar to his own—the second week of January was one of the busiest times of the year in the shop, when the all the hospitalized New Year drivers (or much, much worse, their surviving family members) finally got around to dealing with the smashed cars.

"Safety first, you know that," his dad allowed. "Just…don't make a habit out of it." He pointed his fork at Kurt. "And if I start noticing any funny business going on, we're going to have to have a talk," he threatened. "Setting boundaries, and all that."

Blaine choked on his coffee, his ears turning bright red. Kurt reached over without looking and rubbed his back as he coughed. "I have a fantastic idea," he suggested brightly, smiling at his dad with obviously fake cheer. "Let's not talk about my private activities, or lack thereof, at the breakfast table."

He thought about it for a moment. "Or, you know. Ever," he added. He narrowed his eyes at his dad, who held up his hands wordlessly in surrender—a gesture that was somewhat diminished by the satisfied smirk on his face. Blaine had finished coughing and was breathing normally again, but was keeping his eyes firmly trained on his plate, making a point to not look at either Hummel.

Suppressing a groan—it could only hurt him, at that point—Kurt drained the rest of his coffee. It was going to be a painfully long breakfast.

* * *

><p>Later on, when Blaine had gone home—they'd shared a relatively chaste kiss at the door, wary of Kurt's dad—Kurt was ordered to go take a nap. "I don't need you in the office, since it's a holiday, and like hell I'm going to let you under a car when you can't even sit up straight," his dad had argued, when Kurt tried to protest. "No, go on—I'll take you to your friend's house to get your car later, or I'll tow it back, if you're still not feeling well. Go sleep it off, and maybe cut yourself off a little earlier next time, all right?"<p>

Kurt had retreated downstairs with a miserable eyeroll, energy almost completely gone.

Stripping back down to a t-shirt and briefs, Kurt draped his outfit somewhat haphazardly on the back of his desk chair, quickly grabbing and slipping into a heavier pair of pajamas. Blaine had made his bed—clumsily, perhaps, but the effort was sweet—leaving his borrowed sleepwear folded on top of the comforter, and Kurt impulsively pulled the grey Hummel Tires & Lube t-shirt that still smelled like lavender and spice over his pillow before dropping the socks and sweatpants into the laundry hamper.

Intent on moving his trashcan next to the bed, just in case, Kurt didn't notice the note on the desk until his fingers brushed over it as he was bracing himself on the furniture, bending down to grab the lined mesh basket. Straightening up and clutching the trashcan to his chest, Kurt switched on his desk lamp, leaning in to take a closer look.

Two of Kurt's blue post-it notes were stuck side by side to the desk, and a rough sketch of what was obviously Kurt's room was drawn in black ink on the right. Taking up half of the drawing was a picture of Kurt's bed, where two identical stick figures slept close together, eyes closed and mouths smiling as little 'zzz's surrounded their perfectly round heads. Blaine's handwriting, cramped but neat on the tiny note, identified the little people as "you" and "me", and an arrow pointing at the little Kurt figure led back to the post-it note on the left, bearing a simple message in Blaine's normal-sized handwriting:

_Wish you were here._

Setting down the trashcan, Kurt carefully peeled the note off of his desk, smoothing it gently back down on his nightstand where he could see it from his bed.

The last coherent thought he had before drifting off was that he could hear his heart beating in the ear pressed to his Blaine-pillow, and how he was pretty sure that wasn't supposed to be happening.

* * *

><p>It was clear by the next morning that, rather than merely being hungover, Kurt was actually sick.<p>

His dad, obviously feeling slightly guilty for being impatient with Kurt's sluggishness the day before, braved the grocery store alone in order to stock up on orange juice and chicken noodle soup, and only agreed to let Kurt come to work after a round of bickering that included several threats to the ownership of Kurt's car (counteracted by several threats from Kurt to walk through the snow to the shop if Burt refused to take him). Even then, his permission was only contingent on Kurt's promise to nap on the couch in Burt's office every afternoon, and to stick to paperwork only while on duty. Kurt grudgingly gave his word, and Burt and the other shop employees—most of whom had known Kurt since he was a child, and who had attended every birthday party and piano recital in the years after his mom had died—found several excuses to check in on him, forcing him to eat or lie down if they thought he was looking worse.

It occurred to Kurt more than once that week that being sick was rather like being five years old all over again.

At home, Kurt spent the majority of his time either resting in bed or swaddled in thick blankets on the couch, watching television marathons on Bravo or TLC. He'd finished his homework early in the break—which was a stroke of luck on his part, as his concentration was completely shot, his head feeling incapable of higher thought.

Unfortunately, being sick meant that the majority of Kurt's social circle was banned from seeing him—including Blaine.

"If I get you sick, Shelby will kill _both _of us," Kurt explained darkly, when Blaine tried to object over the phone. "Plus, it's been a couple days already, so I'll hopefully be better by Monday. If you get sick now, you won't be—and the team physicians don't bother with IV drips when giving you your extra vitamins. They'll stick you with a criminally oversized needle right where it hurts."

Dissuaded by the prospect of being unable to sit down for a few days, Blaine unhappily agreed not to visit Kurt in person, but was very good about calling every day just to talk, and made multiple offers to drop off any movies or food that Kurt might want. In a particularly dark hour when Kurt had been too tired to fall asleep, and couldn't take any painkillers for his head for fear of aggravating his already beleaguered stomach, Blaine even sang to him over the phone, soothing his frazzled nerves to the extent that he was able to sleepily make song requests.

When Monday rolled around, Kurt deemed himself well enough to survive the day, knowing that Shelby wouldn't push them to go full out physically or vocally in rehearsals, afraid of straining their bodies and racking up injuries after two weeks of substantially reduced activity. Still, he felt like a zombie in most of his classes—more than once, Blaine had to reach forward and scratch his back during History in order to keep him awake—and when his Chemistry teacher took one look at his pallor and suggested that he go lie down in the nurse's office instead of accidently blowing up the lab in his stupor, he was only too happy to comply.

As it turned out, not only was Kurt right about Shelby's intentions for rehearsal, but his reprieve extended even further than he had first thought. "All right, everyone, welcome back," she greeted the choir calmly at the beginning of rehearsal, while everyone was stretching their tightened muscles onstage. "As some of you may have remembered from September, it's Assessment Day. The physiotherapists are seeing people in teams of two, so everybody grab a partner before we get started. Three teams will go at a time, so cross yourself off the list when you go out in the hall, and send in a new team once you return. Got it?"

Everyone got it, and Shelby appeared satisfied as she continued. "It'll be too difficult to run choreography today with everyone coming and going, so we'll be doing vocals only. However, the specialists want you in base layers as usual, so everybody take two minutes after we finish up here and get changed."

Stifling a yawn—he knew better than to think it would go unnoticed—Kurt glanced at Blaine, who was sitting cross-legged beside him and stretching his right arm. He looked confused, but not concerned, and Kurt remembered suddenly that Blaine had never been there on Assessment Day before. He leaned over far enough to nudge Blaine's shoulder with his own. "Be my partner?" he whispered quietly, glancing up at the front of the stage, where Shelby was giving more detailed instructions to the unfortunate students on The List.

Blaine rolled his eyes in response, smiling. "Obviously," he whispered back, returning the shoulder nudge with a slightly harder one. Kurt, not anticipating it, nearly fell over, straightening back up just in time for Shelby to continue her announcements.

"Finally, and I know some of you have heard about it already, we have a member returning to our ranks early next week." Everyone began buzzing as Kurt's heart stopped in his chest. It had to be Jesse who was coming back to Vocal Adrenaline; it really couldn't be anyone else. And while everyone else had their reasons for wanting Jesse to return or stay away, depending on whether or not they had a solo or duet part to return, Kurt's initial reaction was more…injured, than he would care to admit out loud. _Jesse wouldn't come back without telling me_, he tried to reassure himself at first. A split second later, however, his confidence was wavering. Truthfully, not even telling his best friend that he was coming back to school in order to 'preserve the surprise' or 'lend to the shock value of my valiant return' sounded _exactly_ like something Jesse would do.

Even if said best friend would have appreciated honesty a hell of a lot more.

Damn it, he was tired.

Shelby chose that moment to rip the floor out from under his hastily-achieved conclusions. "Giselle's doctors have cleared her to return to school, and she's been given permission to resume dancing at her own pace," she informed everyone. "Ben, Andrea, I want her integrated into all of the numbers by the end of February. Teach her the partner work for any number that has it—we'll either pair her with Jesse or whoever comes off of the List in time for competition."

Ben nodded obediently but, just as Kurt expected, Andrea was looking murderous. Around them, all of the students were buzzing—some with excitement, others with obvious trepidation at the news, and Kurt felt his own stomach sinking with dread.

Giselle was not his favorite person, but he'd just have to suck it up and cope with her constant, vicious presence. He'd done it before; he could do it again.

A tap on his arm from Blaine snapped Kurt back to the present, where everyone was hastily scrambling offstage to change into their dance clothes. Kurt quickly followed suit, already mourning the loss of the layers that were keeping him warm.

"Okay," Blaine exhaled, following Kurt backstage to grab their duffle bags. "Who's Giselle, and why are we seeing a team of physical therapists?"

The confused look on his face was adorable, and Kurt felt the corners of his mouth turning upward as he knelt down and unzipped his bag. "_Physio_therapists," he amended with an apologetic eyeroll. "I'm fairly certain there isn't actually a difference, but one of them has a doctorate and she won't hesitate to correct you while making you do squats, so it's probably best not to make her angry."

Blaine blanched, and Kurt smiled reassuringly. "It's not that bad," he promised, "they come at the beginning of every semester to assess us. All we have to do is run through a bunch of stretches and exercises, and if you're stronger or more flexible on one side of your body, they'll assign you activities to correct the imbalance." He shuddered involuntarily, thinking of the twice-weekly sets of one-legged squat thrusts he'd been given to do the previous winter.

Blaine must have noticed—or perhaps he hadn't been particularly convincing to begin with—because he was looking apprehensively at Kurt, clutching the black t-shirt Kurt had given him months ago to his chest. "Does it hurt?" he wanted to know, and Kurt quickly shook his head.

"You'll 'feel the burn' a little," he air-quoted, "but it shouldn't take more than ten, fifteen minutes each. And if you're tense enough, they might prescribe you a massage." Blaine brightened at that, and Kurt decided to conveniently leave unsaid that he'd had a sports massage in the past, and it was somewhat akin to having his limbs pulled and stretched and relocated until his kneecaps were touching his shoulder blades.

"As for Giselle…" he began, pausing as he tried to think of the best way to say _Giselle is_ _Satan incarnate_ without sounding overly dramatic. Blaine ducked behind a curtain to change, and Kurt reluctantly slid out of his own jeans and two of his shirts, leaving him in a white t-shirt and a pair of black leggings. _Like a male ballerina_, Sasha had teased him once.

Kurt shook his head, looking around to confirm that nobody was listening to him but Blaine. "She's basically evil," he decided on after a minute, neatly folding his discarded layers and shivering unhappily at the sudden chill. "She's beautiful and ridiculously talented, of course, but she's also manipulative and cutting and never pulls her punches. It was actually rumored for a while that the role of Regina George in _Mean Girls_ was based on her life, which made her getting hit by that car in August all the more terrifying."

Blaine looked horrified as he emerged from behind the curtain, wearing basketball shorts with Carmel's logo printed on one leg. "She got hit by a _car?_ On _purpose_?" he hissed incredulously.

Kurt stifled his laughter. "No, of course not," he promised, only to backtrack immediately. "Well, unless it was secretly Andrea, but I doubt it. Andrea loathes Giselle, but she doesn't have the nerves for something like that—she'd have cracked by now." He made a face. "Don't ever get caught between the two of them," he warned Blaine. "Not unless you have a death wish. Getting involved in one of their arguments puts you straight in the crossfire, which is both legendary and potentially fatal."

"Duly noted," Blaine offered, raising his eyebrow skeptically. He knelt down on the stage floor, stuffing his street clothes back into his bag in a careless manner that made Kurt cringe slightly. "Why do they hate each other so much?" he wondered, blinking back up at Kurt curiously.

Kurt shrugged, wrapping his arms around his waist and noticing with displeasure that goose bumps were forming on his bare skin. "A lot of reasons," he admitted. "If there's something scandalous, I don't know about it, but they've been at each other's throats for as long as I've been here. They're both seniors and are pretty evenly matched, popularity and talent-wise, and it doesn't help that they're both transparently in love with Jesse and took turns partnering with him in all of last year's numbers."

There was a brief moment after he finished his explanation that Kurt was afraid Blaine might put the pieces together, regarding the timing of his relationship with Jesse, and start asking questions.

Fortunately, Blaine's mind went in a different direction. "Oh," he said suddenly, "speaking of Jesse: do you have his email address? My grandmother wanted to see pictures from Sectionals, if I could get them. I thought he might have taken some, since he has all of those cameras at his house."

Kurt snorted. "They're for practice," he confided in amusement. "Jesse's been training himself to be unaffectedly photogenic for years, now. But you're right; he'd be the person to ask. Do you want me to call him, and ask him to send some to you?"

To his surprise, Blaine shook his head. "I can take care of it," he said with a smile. "I just don't know his email, and he'll need mine in order to send me the pictures, anyway."

It was a fair point. Kurt nodded slowly. "Why don't I send it to you tonight, then?" he suggested. "I don't remember it offhand."

That was a lie—Jesse had commandeered Kurt's laptop so many times in order to check his email that Kurt could type in the passwords in his sleep. But Blaine didn't know that.

"All right, everyone; it's been way longer than two minutes and we have a lot of group numbers to get through," Shelby called from the orchestra pit. "Vocal groups, thirty seconds."

Blaine flashed him a smile and headed out on the stage, the legs of his shorts audibly swishing past each other. Kurt started to follow, but doubled back at the last second to rifle through his bag and take back his sweater—the auditorium was unusually cold, and the physiotherapists would just have to deal.

* * *

><p>Jesse was in a cheerful mood when Kurt called him that evening. "Do I hear running water?" he wanted to know, shutting off the music that had been playing in the background as they exchanged what passed for pleasantries between the two of them. "I hope you're using the bath salts I sent you for Christmas."<p>

Kurt, who was seated on the edge of the bathtub with the Limoncello-scented crystals in one hand, didn't bother rolling his eyes—Jesse couldn't see it, and the newest round of painkillers had yet to ease his headache. "I'm fully dressed, before you can ask," he lied, adjusting the folds of his bathrobe, "and yes, I'm pouring them in right now."

"Good," Jesse purred, sounding satisfied. "I chose them with your shampoos in mind. I hope you'll think of me whenever you use them."

Kurt was too tired to go there. "And I hope you'll think of me whenever you ski off a mountain wearing your new gloves," he countered wearily. "Did Giselle tell you that she was coming back to Carmel? Shelby announced it today."

Jesse laughed richly. "She didn't say anything to me, no," he replied. "The last I heard, they still had her doing three hours of exercises a day in that kinky steel cage. Andrea must be thrilled."

Kurt turned off the taps in the bathtub. "If by 'thrilled', you mean 'pissed', then yes," he said dryly. He paused. "You know she's going to ask me about you," he pointed out.

Kurt could practically _hear_ Jesse shrugging over the phone. "Tell her whatever you want," he offered. "I don't have anything to hide."

Kurt scoffed. "How about that your new girlfriend is the biological daughter of our coach?" he reminded Jesse. "You don't think maybe that should be kept under wraps?"

Jesse sighed. "As far as Rachel is concerned, her parents are her Two Gay Dads," he explained in an overly patient tone of voice. "I don't see why Giselle needs to know anything other than that."

Kurt shook his head. "Every time she says something about her Two Gay Dads, I can hear the capitalization in my head," he complained. "It sounds like a college punk band that nobody with taste would ever listen to."

Jesse laughed. "It really does," he agreed. "But in all seriousness, you should meet them. I am, of course, rooting for you in all of your performing endeavors, but should you fail and be resigned to a life of suburban mediocrity, they'd be excellent role models for you and your future spouse."

Kurt glared at the phone. "Thanks," he retorted sarcastically.

"You're welcome," Jesse replied serenely, ignoring Kurt's tone. "By the way, have you ever been rollerblading? It's surprisingly fun—Rachel and I went with her Glee Club today. It's very kitsch; I kept thinking about how much you'd have hated it."

Kurt trailed his fingers through the water. "Then it's a good thing you took Rachel instead of me," he noted bluntly, trying to slip out of his robe and into the tub as quietly as possible so that Jesse wouldn't hear him.

"She did enjoy it," Jesse agreed. "She's very coordinated, if perhaps an inch or two shorter than the perfect complementary match for my physical type. But I'm sure she'll wear heels to the Winter Ball, though, so we should be stunning together."

Kurt knocked the closest bottle of body wash into the water. "Wait, you're coming to the Winter Ball?" he asked, wiping off the drops of water that had hit him in the face with his dry arm. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

If Jesse heard the splash, he didn't mention it. "I've already asked her," he informed Kurt, "and she's thrilled. She understands that Carmel was my school for three and a half years, and that I still have significant ties to all of my old friends. I'm confident that the faculty and staff will also recognize that and make an exception for us." He laughed softly. "Plus, I think she's hoping that someone in Vocal Adrenaline will accidently spill some classified information that she can heroically take back to New Directions. She can be a little nosy at times."

"Imagine that," Kurt deadpanned.

"We're planning on going out for a romantic dinner beforehand," Jesse continued, "and we'd love to have you and Blaine join us. We'd even understand if you chose not to dress up, although I'd certainly advise conforming to the dress code of the restaurant, at the very least."

Kurt closed his eyes, sinking deeper into the water. "Actually, we're planning on going to the dance as well," he corrected. "I'll have to talk to Blaine and ask what he wants to do for dinner, though."

Jesse whistled softly. "Wow. I'll admit that that was not the answer I was expecting," he confessed. "But yes, you should definitely let him decide—after all that he went through at his last school dance, I'm sure he'll need a significant measure of control over the evening to truly work through his demons and enjoy himself."

Kurt tensed slightly at Jesse's implied dig, but forced himself to relax—he didn't have the energy to be as passive-aggressive as getting into an argument with Jesse would require. "By the way, I texted Blaine your email address before calling," he said, redirecting the conversation. "Check your spam filter, if you don't hear from him in a day or two."

"I'll bet he wants to say thank you for the Christmas gift I sent him," Jesse mused, sounding pleased. "I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but he's very well mannered. Casting directors are going to eat him up when he turns professional."

Before Kurt could think of a response, Jesse was sighing into the phone. "I'd better get going; I have a phone appointment with Angela and one of the shrinks at the clinic in five minutes," he said. "We're supposed to be discussing the family dynamics at play with her bulimia, but they won't pay for anyone else to join in on the phone call, so I expect it's going to be a fairly short session."

"Isn't Simon spending the semester in Europe?" Kurt pointed out, referring to Jesse's—frankly, kind of a loser—older brother. "Transatlantic phone calls aren't exactly cheap, Jesse."

"And my parents are in Belize," Jesse added calmly. "But if it's really as critical to her recovery as the psychiatrists seem to think, they ought to be willing to meet us halfway. We certainly pay them enough. Anyway, I'll send her your regards."

Kurt shook his head. "You do that," he said lifelessly. "Maybe ask the shrink what on Earth is wrong with you, while you've got him on the phone."

Jesse laughed again. "Work on your delivery," he advised, "I didn't believe it. You have to really practice, if you want people to think that you're naturally humorous."

Kurt grunted.

"You're welcome," Jesse replied. "I'll leave you to your bath; get out before you start to wrinkle."

* * *

><p>When Kurt was clean and warm and wearing fresh pajamas, he sat down at his desk and opened the third drawer, revealing the envelope that Jesse had given him over a month ago, still untouched.<p>

He stared at Blaine's name, written across the center in neat writing, for a long, long time.

* * *

><p>Kurt managed to stay awake during 4th period on Tuesday, though his total retention of the material was certainly significantly lower than usual. Still, he counted it as a win as he leaned on Blaine's shoulder, letting him do most of the work as they made their way to the languages wing. Every once in a while, he could feel Blaine glance down at him, and he would squeeze Blaine's hand in response.<p>

After the third time, Kurt felt Blaine vibrate gently with laughter. "What are you thinking about?" Blaine wanted to know.

_What Jesse gave you for Christmas. Why you never mentioned it to me. _"Whether you have something to wear to the Ball, or whether we need to go shopping," Kurt answered, blinking up at him.

Blaine looked thoughtful. "I don't know," he admitted after a minute. "How dressy is it?"

Kurt straightened up—trying to walk while watching Blaine upside down and diagonally was starting to make him nauseated. "Some guys wear suits," he remembered, thinking about his own visually stunning number the year before. "Others skip the jacket and go for a vest and tie combination."

He smiled. "If it helps, _I _am wearing a vintage Armani suit that I lucked into at an estate sale this summer," he informed Blaine, "and will be looking appropriately spectacular."

Blaine grinned. "That's a lot of pressure on me to look good, then," he reasoned. "Want to come over after school tomorrow and go through my closet? If I don't have anything to wear, we can go shopping when you're feeling better."

Kurt nodded. "Yes, please," he replied primly. "And I don't know what you're talking about; I am 100% better, if it means you'll take me shopping."

Blaine looked at him fondly. "You're 100% something," he agreed, kissing Kurt's knuckles gently before leading him down the hall.

* * *

><p>It was halfway through rehearsal that afternoon when Shelby gave everyone a ten minute break and called Andrew and Kurt over to talk to her.<p>

"You two were off yesterday, too, but I assumed you were rusty from having so much time off," she said without preamble. "One of you is sick, and I'm guessing it's you." She pointed at Kurt. "Am I right?"

Kurt looked at Andrew, who was watching him with big eyes, before nodding with a sigh.

Shelby closed her eyes briefly. "All right," she replied flatly. "Andrew, go stretch and get some water." Andrew shot Kurt a sympathetic glance before leaving, escaping down the aisle as Shelby rounded on Kurt. "Kurt, there's dedication, and then there's stupidity," she said bluntly. "How long have you been sick for?"

Kurt bit his lip, looking at Shelby's hand where it lay on the table rather than meeting her gaze. "Five days, maybe six," he confessed, his vision blurring slightly at Shelby's resulting sigh of exasperation.

"That would be stupidity," she informed him, raking a hand through her dark hair.

Kurt nodded wordlessly. He _hated _screwing up.

Shelby knocked on the table to get his attention. "All right," she said again, "here's what we're going to do: we're running group numbers today and Thursday, and your solo is scheduled for Friday. I'm going to bump up Blaine and Ryleigh, so you'll be going Monday instead. You can continue singing for as long as you feel like you can, but the second you start losing your voice, stop—mid-song, mid-_phrase_, I don't care. Understood?"

Kurt nodded. Shelby nodded back. "Obviously, no more dancing," she continued. "We'll reassess that on Friday. And I don't know what you're eating, but it's not doing your immune system any favors. I want you on an extra five hundred calories a day, at least through Sunday—whole grains, proteins, fruits, whatever. Do you need to talk to Julie, or can you figure it out on your own?"

Kurt's mouth felt like sandpaper—Julie was Carmel's dietician. "No," he managed, "I can do it.

Shelby's expression softened. "It's not a death sentence," she told him, "it's food and sleep. Trust me, you need it—you have two and a half more years with me, and so much potential. Don't screw it up now."

When Kurt's dad came home from work that night, there was a pork loin sizzling in the oven. "It was just a good day," Kurt explained, when Burt asked him what the special occasion was.

* * *

><p>Wednesday was less than stellar, however. Kurt's stomach was finally back to normal, but he was still much more tired than usual, and the ever-present headache that he'd been pushing back with ibuprofen had crept back in by the end of the school day, making his temples ache. Many of his classmates, and even some of his teachers, had commented on his haggard appearance, to the extent that Kurt was ready to scream in frustration if one more person told him that he looked exhausted.<p>

Even if it was true.

Blaine, thankfully, had been polite enough not to say anything, though Kurt did notice the apprehensive way that he'd eyed the car keys in Kurt's hand back at Carmel, and the relieved expression on his face once they'd safely reached Blaine's house in their separate vehicles.

Choosing to ignore the subtle hovering rather than pick a fight, Kurt smiled extra sweetly at Blaine as his boyfriend unlocked the front door and let them into the house. "I'm excited to raid your closet," he shared, slipping out of his boots and setting them carefully on the mat as Blaine hung up their coats. "I didn't get to see it last time."

Kurt had only been in Blaine's room once before, and he hadn't stayed long. Besides Blaine's mother being home, Blaine had clearly been nervous about letting Kurt see it, refusing to meet his eyes while simultaneously scrutinizing his face for his reaction. He needn't have worried—though the blend of family heirlooms, old fashioned décor, and academic memorabilia _had _been—frankly—bizarre and not at all in line with Kurt's personal aesthetics, it _did _mesh well with the rest of the Andersons' house, and was charming in its own strange way.

Blaine was smiling wryly at Kurt. "Just don't get your hopes up," he warned, slowly starting up the hardwood staircase, Kurt close behind him. "I've been in private school since the first grade, so I don't have as much 'normal' clothing as most people."

Kurt had to smile as Blaine tried to justify his wardrobe. He gripped the railing as he followed Blaine up the steps, feeling a little lightheaded. "Could you borrow something from your dad, if you don't have anything to wear?" he wondered out loud, suppressing a yawn. "Not that I don't love shopping vicariously through others, but it'd save money."

Blaine had begun shaking his head before Kurt had even finished his question. "I don't think that'll work," he answered simply, calmly, only the small frown giving away his displeasure at the suggestion.

Kurt frowned in return, pausing briefly. He knew that Blaine's relationship with his father was…complicated, as of late, but still, Blaine's parents didn't seem like the type of people who would deny their son access to something so simple as a borrowed suit. Unless…

Kurt's frown deepened. "Does he know that you're going to the dance?" he asked, watching Blaine closely.

When Blaine stopped walking, Kurt knew that he had guessed correctly. "He doesn't," Blaine confessed, after a moment. "I haven't told either of them."

Kurt nodded slowly. "Are you going to?" he wanted to know. Blaine didn't answer at first, and Kurt shifted his weight from one foot to the other, forcing himself to be patient and supportive despite his exhaustion.

"My parents…would worry," Blaine answered finally, his grip on the bannister visibly tightening. "They'd want to talk about it, dissect it from every angle, make sure I've thought everything through—they wouldn't just let it be my decision and let it go." He paused. "I feel like I have just enough courage to convince myself that I can do this," he admitted. "I don't have enough to convince them, too."

He turned slightly, looking back at Kurt. "Does that make sense?" he asked nervously, twisting his lip as he waited for Kurt's answer.

Kurt nodded, because it _did_ make sense. Still, he couldn't help but think of his first meeting with Blaine's mom, who nervously encouraged her son to go out despite her reservations, and his own father, who hadn't bothered to hide his hurt and disappointment when he found out that Kurt had been seeing someone for over a month without telling him.

But it wasn't Kurt's decision; it was Blaine's, and even if he suspected that Blaine's parents might want the chance to show the same bravery as their son, to help Blaine move on from whatever had happened to him, it wasn't his place to say so. And it clearly wasn't what Blaine wanted to hear.

Although Blaine had warned him about the sparseness of his closet, Kurt was still surprised by how empty it really was: though the clothing that was there was fairly high quality, the row of hangers barely took up half of their allocated space.

Which would work out perfectly, someday, when they were married and Kurt's celebrity icon salary meant that he could shop to his heart's content, but still. "Don't your clothes get lonely in here?" he teased, making Blaine blush delicately a few feet behind him. "Did you leave this empty space on purpose, to commemorate your grand exit?"

Blaine stared. "Did you just make a 'coming out of the closet' joke?" he demanded. "Please tell me that was spontaneous, because if you've been saving that one up…"

Kurt smiled enigmatically, and Blaine shook his head, amused. "I don't even know what to say to that," he confessed. "Can I get you anything to eat or drink? I could make tea."

Kurt, about to politely decline out of sheer habit, paused when Blaine mentioned tea. "That would be perfect, actually," he agreed. "I'll get started up here, if you don't mind."

Blaine smiled. "I'll leave you to it," he said, starting for the door.

Before he left, however, he paused in the doorway. "You can roll my desk chair over, if you get tired of standing," he offered, leaning briefly against the doorframe. "I know you wanted to do this today, but you still look pretty worn out from being sick."

Kurt waited until after Blaine ducked out of the room, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall, to sigh heavily. Apparently, politeness was a mixed bag.

Working quickly, Kurt flipped through shirts, pants, and suits, pulling out pieces with potential and draping them on Blaine's bed. Most of the colors and styles were fairly conservative—Kurt was willing to bet that Mrs. Anderson had picked out a fair number of items—but combined reasonably well, and could be jazzed up with the right accessories. One of the pieces that caught Kurt's eye in particular was a sleek, stylish black suit that looked similar to the one Blaine had been wearing on Christmas Eve. Or maybe it was the same one; it was a couple weeks since Kurt had seen it, and it had been the middle of the night, and the camera quality wasn't perfect, and his head was starting to swim a little.

Kurt managed to stay on his feet long enough to finish sorting through the closet, then switched to the desk chair before working to narrow the five potential outfits down to three. Deciding to let Blaine pick from the remains, he slumped over gracelessly in his seat, letting his head hang down and his eyes flutter shut.

Which was, of course, Blaine's cue to come up the stairs, china cups of tea rattling dangerously on a plate in his hand as he balanced a dripping stack of the World's Most Buttered Toast in his other.

"Here, eat," Blaine requested, setting the plates down on his desk carefully and passing Kurt a cup of tea. Kurt smiled gratefully, gently blowing on the steaming liquid and rolling his chair a few inches away from the other plate as Blaine turned to examine his handiwork.

"Are these my choices?" Blaine asked with interest, looking at the outfits Kurt had chosen with the same intensity that Kurt imagined he'd show a child's first finger-painting—cheerful and almost too attentive.

Kurt nodded, taking a tiny sip of tea. "I'm rather partial to the suit," he confided, setting the still-too-hot china cup back down, "but if you'd rather go with a more informal choice, the others would look good on you without clashing with me, so you'd have my blessing."

Blaine smiled at that, but the smile quickly melted into a look of concern when he noticed the untouched plate at Kurt's elbow. "Kurt, you're not eating your toast," he pointed out, eyebrows furrowed.

Kurt looked at the glistening, overly buttered slices and actively suppressed a shudder. He really did want to try and eat a little more—if only because getting sent to Julie would mean meal plans and phone calls home and his dad would potentially have a stroke or kill him—but the smell of that much fat on anything was nearly making him gag.

"I just—my throat is a little raw, and I'm not sure eating something so scratchy is a good idea," he lied, schooling his expression into something that hopefully resembled regret.

It must have worked, because Blaine was looking somewhat abashed. "I didn't even think of that, I'm sorry," he apologized, making Kurt feel terrible. "Let me go make you something else."

"You really don't have to do that," Kurt sputtered as Blaine stood up, uneasily wondering what Blaine would try next—ice cream? Jello salad? The other half of the tub of margarine that _hadn't _been on his toast?

Blaine sighed, exasperated. "What if I want to?" he asked seriously, looking straight at Kurt. "What if I want to take care of you, for once, instead of the other way around?"

The look he was giving Kurt wasn't angry, but a little frightening in its intensity, and Kurt's mouth was dry as he tried to think of something to say. "Blaine, I…" he started, before sighing and giving up, looking down at his lap where his hands were nervously entwined.

He heard Blaine cross the room and sit down on the bed across from him; watched as Blaine reached over and took his cold hands, gently cupping them in his own warm ones. "That didn't come out right," Blaine breathed, leaning forward to press his forehead against Kurt's. Kurt melted into him easily, letting Blaine support him as he closed his eyes.

"I just worry about you sometimes," Blaine admitted. "You work so hard, and you've been sick, and I just want to help you feel better." He squeezed Kurt's hands. "You take care of everyone else, and you do such a great job at it, you really do. But will you please just let me take care of you, right now?"

Blaine's breath was warm on his cheek, and Kurt felt shaky and vulnerable in a way that he wasn't used to. "I'm just really tired," he replied in a brittle voice, shutting his eyes even tighter before he started to cry for reasons he didn't understand, and couldn't explain.

Blaine pressed his lips to Kurt's forehead. "Come lie down," he suggested, before pulling back from Kurt and standing up. He quickly moved the various outfits spread out on his bed, then pulled the covers back so that Kurt could climb in. "Just rest for a little while, okay?" he asked, smoothing the blanket over Kurt and leaning down to kiss his forehead again.

"I'll be here when you wake up."

* * *

><p>"…<em>how friends act, Blaine."<em>

"_He's not feeling well; I told him to."_

The voices were quiet, a hushed whispering that barely registered in Kurt's mind, at first.

"_What did I do wrong, Mom?"_

"_Sweetie, you didn't…I just don't know if it's…appropriate to let your friends sleep in your bed anymore."_

"_Because I'm gay."_

"_Because you're in high school."_

When the voices grew louder, however, Kurt realized that he must have fallen asleep, and that Mrs. Anderson had obviously come home at some point. And that she clearly wasn't pleased to find him (them? He wasn't sure how long the conversation had been going on) in her son's bed.

They hadn't yet noticed that he was awake, and Kurt quickly debated whether or not to indicate in some way that he was no longer unaware of their conversation. After thinking about it for a few seconds, he decided to listen for a little longer—he wasn't sure if Blaine would appreciate the interruption, or if it would make the situation worse, based on what he had already heard.

"What should I have done, then?" Blaine was asking flatly. "Made him drive himself home when he could barely keep his eyes open?"

Kurt heard a sigh that sounded nearly identical to Blaine's. "No, of course not," Mrs. Anderson answered, her voice more drained than Kurt was used to hearing it. "But we have other places you could have offered him. The guest room, the pullout couch downstairs, the futon…"

"We were already in here doing homework," Blaine pointed out, surprising Kurt a little with how good a liar he could be. "It didn't occur to me to make him go down to the basement to sleep on the futon when there was a bed three feet away."

Mrs. Anderson sighed again. "Blaine…" she started, before trailing off.

Kurt held his breath, waiting.

"What, Mom?" Blaine prompted, the slightest trace of exasperation noticeable in his voice.

It took her a minute to answer. "I think it's wonderful that you're making friends," she said finally, and Kurt held very still, just in case she was looking in his direction. "We love that you've been going out more, and how much happier you've seemed lately. We just—"

Kurt could hear her struggling. "Carmel's been a fresh start for you, and we just don't want you to send anyone the wrong message, that's all," she finished.

When Blaine spoke again, his voice was colder than Kurt had ever heard it. "What 'message' would that be, Mom?" he asked icily, sending a cold shiver down Kurt's spine.

Mrs. Anderson was smart enough not to answer.

"Being gay doesn't mean I'm interested in every boy I see," Blaine continued stonily. "And it doesn't mean I have any ulterior motives for letting a sick, tired friend—who's bent over backwards to make changing schools easier for me, by the way—take a nap in my room before he has to drive half an hour to get home."

"Sweetie, I know that," Blaine's mother replied, her voice choked with tears. "I would _never_—that's not what I think, and I know you know that," she stammered. "But people—after what happened at Aquinas, the way they singled you out like that. Can't you understand why we don't want the people at your new school to have any reason to target you that way again?"

If Kurt felt distinctly uncomfortable, he couldn't _imagine _what Blaine was probably feeling. The silence in the room was horribly tense, broken only by Mrs. Anderson's occasional sniff.

Finally, Blaine cleared his throat. "I think Kurt's waking up," he said tonelessly. "You should probably…" Picking up on his cue, Kurt stirred a little, keeping his eyes closed.

"O-of course," Blaine's mother replied, equally subdued. "Um, you can tell—if Kurt doesn't feel up to driving home later, I'm sure your father won't mind taking him home," she added. "Or you could drive Kurt's car back, and Dad can pick you up from his house."

Blaine didn't answer out loud, but her must have nodded, because a moment later Kurt could hear the clicking of her stilettos out in the hallway, followed by the sound of Blaine's door shutting.

Kurt finally opened his eyes, and felt the sudden movement of Blaine's mattress as Blaine flopped on the bed next to him. "How much of that did you hear?" he asked Kurt, and Kurt turned over in place to face him.

"Not a lot. I thought I was dreaming, at first," he explained, taking in Blaine's red-rimmed eyes and unhappy expression. "Enough to know that you were probably smart not to tell them about the dance, and that you probably won't be telling them the truth about me for a while."

Blaine sighed heavily, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry," he apologized morosely. "I'm sorry you had to hear that, and I'm so sorry that I couldn't just tell her about you. I wanted to, but…"

Kurt reached out to stroke Blaine's cheek, reveling in the way that Blaine's eyelashes fluttered open at his touch. "It's fine," he murmured. "I mean, obviously it's not, but it is what it is.

"You know she's wrong, though, don't you?" he pressed, looking seriously at Blaine. "You haven't done anything wrong, and you don't have to change anything about yourself, just to make people more comfortable." Blaine took a shuddering breath, but didn't answer, and Kurt rubbed his thumb gently over Blaine's cheekbone, as if to wipe away the tears that weren't there. "If other people don't like you because of the way you were born, then they're seriously missing out," he insisted, starting to smile. "And who needs them, anyway?"

Blaine nodded under Kurt's hand. "I know," he said softly, though his expression didn't change. "I know she doesn't really think that. I just…forget that, when she says things like that, and I just get so _angry_ because I don't—"

He sighed. "It's just hard to hear," he admitted, looking sadly at Kurt.

Kurt couldn't think of anything to say that would make Blaine feel better; at least, not anything he hadn't already said. "Do you want a back rub?" he offered, hoping to lighten the mood a little.

It worked—Blaine's expression softened as he looked back at Kurt. "I'm supposed to be the one taking care of you," he pointed out, reaching up to wrap his hand around Kurt's.

Kurt shrugged. "All right," he agreed flippantly, "you give _me_ a back rub, then."

Blaine's mouth opened in surprise for a second before he began to smirk deviously, and Kurt barely had time to register the change in his expression before Blaine dove forward, rolling Kurt onto his stomach and straddling his lower back. "Yes, sir," Blaine answered, laughing as Kurt shrieked at the sudden action. "Should I heat up some stones to put on your back?" he asked playfully, pressing lightly on Kurt's shoulder blades to keep him from shoving him off. "Maybe play some soothing music, heavily featuring woodwind instruments?"

"I was kidding!" Kurt argued, his laughter completely ruining the pout he was attempting. "Get off before you smother me."

Blaine obediently climbed off, dropping back into his former spot on the bed, and Kurt took a few deep breaths—he hadn't really been smothered by any means, but it _was_ more difficult to breathe face-down in someone's pillow—before curling up into Blaine's side. "Much better," he decided, letting Blaine wrap his arms around him and pull him closer. Smiling into Blaine's shirt, he closed his eyes.

"Don't let me fall asleep, all right?" he requested drowsily. "I'm just going to close my eyes for a minute."

He didn't hear Blaine's response, but felt the vibrations of Blaine's chest underneath him as he laughed softly and answered.

A minute later Kurt gave up, warm and content and surrounded by Blaine, and drifted off.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18/30-ish. Yup.

An extra-special thank you to those of you who sent well wishes and happy thoughts regarding my cancer treatments—you're my favorite :) I promise I'm getting to those review responses—I love and appreciate every single one; it just takes me forever to show it :/

* * *

><p>It had taken far too much sleep, and more orange juice than any one person should ever be forced to consume, but Kurt was finally feeling better. Which was fortunate, because Blaine was feeling worse.<p>

Not that Kurt had accidently infected him with the plague; as far as he could tell, Blaine remained resolutely, stubbornly healthy. However, in the week and a half since Blaine had argued with his mother in front of Kurt, the tension in the Anderson house had redoubled, and the progress they had reportedly been making since Blaine had transferred to Carmel had…regressed, somewhat.

"It's like last fall all over again," Blaine had confided gloomily. "Like they're not quite sure what to do with me, but they're afraid that if we talk about anything real, I might have some sort of meltdown." When Kurt asked him if he had said as much to his parents, Blaine had merely shaken his head.

"That would fall under the category of actually communicating, remember?" he'd pointed out wryly. "Besides, how do I know they're not right? If I think for too long about the way things have been, or how they got that way, I either want to cry like a baby or punch something. Not exactly a stable, adult reaction."

After witnessing, however covertly, Mrs. Anderson's reaction to a 'platonic friend' in Blaine's room, Kurt wasn't sure any suggestion he could think of would be remotely helpful. Instead, he began going out of his way to be an extra-good, super-supportive boyfriend: bringing Blaine coffee in the morning when he had time, leaving bags of the chewy cinnamon candies he knew Blaine loved in his locker on the days he had to go to therapy, helping him with his math homework without having to be asked each time. Doing Blaine's physiotherapist-prescribed stretches with him before and after rehearsal (Blaine's flexibility had apparently only been in the 40th percentile of their age group, which put him markedly below average in Vocal Adrenaline). Doing his best not to be smothering and clingy when Blaine had to go home early, or was too tired to hang out with him. Being outwardly _not _jealous when Bohemian Rhapsody was the first completely finished, polished number in contention for Regionals, or when Dakota Stanley thanked Blaine and Ryleigh for not sucking as much as the rest of the talentless hacks he was resigned to working with that semester.

The last one was especially hard, given that only deep inner calm (and daydreams of garroting Dakota in his sleep) had kept Kurt from reacting badly the day before when Stanley had torn his own number to shreds.

Despite—or perhaps because of—all of his best efforts, Kurt couldn't help but feel a little guilty as he drove to school on Tuesday morning, less than two weeks before the Winter Ball. As much as he wanted Blaine to be happy, he knew that his recent efforts to be the perfect boyfriend for Blaine had been at least partially selfish:

He wanted Blaine to be happy, absolutely. But more than that, he wanted Blaine to be happy with _him._

Growing up with a single parent, Kurt knew what it was like to desperately crave parental approval. He knew his dad was flawed—one taste of his cooking was enough to confirm that—but hearing him say that he loved Kurt, that he was proud of his son… There was nothing like it, and Kurt would have done just about anything in order to hear it. And he was lucky: he and Burt might not always agree on things, and they definitely didn't always understand each other, but Kurt had never really been afraid that his dad didn't _love_ him.

Blaine clearly didn't have the same faith in his own parents, and Kurt didn't know them well enough to know whether or not they had earned his mistrust and wariness. Still, Kurt knew that Blaine was like him, in that he still wantedand _needed _to know that he was loved, regardless of what he might say or how he might act.

Adding to that pressure was the looming onus of the upcoming dance, which Kurt still didn't entirely understand the significance of. And the fact that his parents still didn't know about their relationship, which Kurt was a little afraid he _did_ understand the significance of. Because when it came down to it, if Blaine was feeling pressured from all sides until something had to give, or ever felt like he needed to break up with Kurt in order to earn his parents' love and approval…

Kurt knew that was a battle he'd lose every time. The only thing he could really do was to make sure that Blaine felt secure and loved enough in their relationship that it never felt like a burden or a liability, and hope for the best.

He glanced at the second travel mug of coffee in the cup holder of his Navigator.

He really, really hoped.

* * *

><p>Blaine was slumped over on his desk when Kurt arrived in History that day, his eyes worryingly blank as he stared ahead at nothing in particular. Kurt sat down in front of him and carded his fingers through Blaine's hair. "I couldn't find you this morning," he told Blaine, going for casual but sounding concerned instead. "Is everything okay?"<p>

Blaine shrugged, not bothering to sit up. "I overslept and missed first period," he admitted. "My parents were up late last night, discussing what they should do with me this summer."

Kurt's hand stilled for a moment, then resumed stroking. "Do you get a say in any of it?" he asked dryly, looking down at Blaine.

Blaine shrugged again. "You would think so," he quipped, "but as I was not invited to join their conversation, I couldn't tell you."

Kurt stared. "Wait, they didn't even ask you what you wanted?" Kurt responded, confused. "They're not…sending you to Straight Camp or anything, are they?"

Blaine smiled weakly. "Nothing like that," he sighed. "More like 'Dad's planning to call Grandma today and see if I could stay with her for longer than my usual two weeks this year', sort of planning." He shook his head. "It's just so out of character for them," he added, sounding hurt. "They've never just made decisions for me before."

Kurt thought about it. "Maybe they were just discussing options," he suggested slowly. "Maybe they just want to make sure you could stay with your Grandma if you wanted to, before they offer you the choice."

Blaine nodded, but he didn't look convinced. Kurt smiled at him. "What are you doing for Spring Break?" he asked, hoping to cheer him up. "Less than a month to go, and then we don't have to go to school for nine whole days."

The bell rang before Blaine could answer, and Kurt rolled his eyes, smiling sadly at Blaine before turning around to take out his notebook.

Kurt himself was unfortunately resigned to spending the break in Ohio. His dad usually took his two weeks of vacation during the summer, so that they could go somewhere without having to pull Kurt out of school. This year, he'd scheduled his time off for the last two weeks of August. "It'll give you a couple of days to rest after getting back from that Academy camp," he'd reasoned, shaking his head dismissively when Kurt pointed out that his getting in was hardly a sure thing.

"If you do, you do," he'd said simply, "and if you don't, well, we'll have that much more money to put toward our trip. Maybe go all the way to New York or California, this time; see some colleges."

Kurt had liked that idea. He enjoyed travelling, both with his dad and with Vocal Adrenaline, but there were drawbacks to each: either working too hard and getting dragged out of bed at four in the morning on competition trips, or staying in bland hotel rooms in less lavish locations (or Mildred's guest room, which smelled so strongly of booze that he swore he spent his visits secondhand-drunk) on family vacations. A trip to a more exciting city with his dad would be the best of both.

Whatever was happening in the summer, though, wouldn't matter for months. Instead, Kurt turned his mind back to Spring Break. He really hoped that Blaine was staying in town as well—the whole 'we fell asleep watching movies and now it's too late to let Blaine drive home, guess he'll just have to stay here all night' scenario that he hoped to pull off in the near future would simply fall to pieces if Blaine wasn't actually in town.

* * *

><p>Giselle had been back for two weeks, and Kurt was already ready to hit her with another car and send her back to her rehabilitation clinic in New Mexico.<p>

Kurt was well aware of the fact that he was probably being unfair: except for her tendency to bitch about how cold the auditorium was—acclimated to the Southern heat, she'd often wear a thin hoodie for the first hour of rehearsal while everyone else was in t-shirts—she was actually a lot more pleasant than she had ever been. She hadn't singled out any of the underclassmen for verbal abuse, nobody else Kurt knew about had been victim to her social machinations, and she had yet to accidently-on-purpose trip a rival and send him or her flying across the stage. By all appearances, Giselle was nothing more than a normal girl, settling back into school and activities after a prolonged absence.

Except.

Except every once in a while, Kurt would catch her staring, at him or someone else, with a look of calculated dislike. And if she noticed him noticing, she'd smile, a dangerous, oily expression that was clearly meant to let Kurt know that not only was she onto him, but that she was merely biding her time. Kurt found the passive-aggressive tactic even more unnerving than her previous outright cruelty had been.

Especially when, after being back in rehearsals long enough to have picked up the majority of the choreography from Ben—who was working with her exclusively while Andrea covered everyone else—she set her sights on Blaine.

"What do you think it means when someone thinks you're 'interesting'?" Blaine asked him one afternoon, while they were having coffee at On That Note before Blaine had to leave to see Dr. Ramirez.

Kurt paused, his mug halfway between the table and his mouth. "I think it would depend on who was saying it, and in what context," he said carefully, thinking uneasily about Jesse's description of Blaine, way back before either of them really knew him. "Who called you interesting?"

Blaine shook his head, smiling disbelievingly. "Giselle sat with me at lunch for a little while today," he confessed. "She said she was curious about me, since she hadn't met me yet and everyone else seemed to like me." He blushed as he spoke. "She wanted to know how the two of us met," he continued, "and how we got together."

"Did you tell her?" Kurt asked, mouth suddenly dry. Giselle, for all her outward reformation, never asked questions just to be polite. In fact, she reminded him of Jesse, in that she nearly always had an agenda—with either of them, there was no such thing as an innocent question.

And after what had happened the year before, the last thing he wanted was Giselle asking Blaine questions about him.

Blaine shrugged. "I didn't have a reason not to," he pointed out. "It's not a secret that we're dating, and I think everyone knows that we got together the weekend of Sectionals." He frowned. "I know you said she's kind of horrible, but I just don't see it, Kurt," he admitted. "I haven't spent as much time with her as you have, obviously, but she's been pretty nice to me so far. Was she different before the accident?"

Kurt frowned back. He couldn't blame Blaine for questioning his description of Giselle as an evil harpy—compared to the old Giselle, the new version was practically an angel. Had Blaine been the one telling him about her, he would have been skeptical as well. "I suppose it's possible that the accident knocked some of the meanness out of her," he allowed, not really believing it. "She _has_ been markedly less hostile since her return."

Blaine smiled. "You were definitely right about her and Andrea, though," he said, eyes sparkling. "Giselle was only gone for about two minutes before Andrea found me and started asking about what we talked about. I don't even think she was in the cafeteria when Giselle and I were together; it was like she just knew."

Kurt nodded sagely—that sounded fairly typical of Andrea and Giselle. "And did you tell her?" he asked again, already fairly certain that he knew the answer.

Sure enough, Blaine nodded. "I left out the part at the end where she called me interesting, though," he confided. "It felt more private."

Kurt smiled and nodded, but felt sick with dread on the inside. Giselle was clearly interested in his and Blaine's relationship, which meant that Andrea would be as well, even if she didn't necessarily know what had sparked Giselle's curiosity. Either way, now that Jesse was gone, the girls were the two people at Carmel that Kurt _least _wanted interested in anything he and Blaine did.

And worst of all, there was absolutely nothing he could do about any of it.

Blaine glanced at his watch. "I have to go," he said regretfully. "Are you going to stay and finish that?"

Kurt looked down at his still warm, half full mug of coffee. "I probably will," he decided, thinking of the pile of homework in his bag, most of which he could do without his computer.

"I'll say goodbye here, then," Blaine replied, and kissed Kurt over the table before standing up and sliding into his coat. He paused after putting on one of his gloves. "I bought a flower, for your suit this weekend," he told Kurt, smiling gently. "I didn't know if that was A Thing at the Ball, or Carmel, or if people only did that in the movies."

Kurt smiled back. "It's not a Carmel thing," he admitted, "but I'd love to wear it anyway. Two more days?"

Blaine sighed, managing to smile despite the anxiety apparent on his face. "Two more days," he confirmed. "Let's hope I'm ready."

* * *

><p>Kurt had shared Jesse's dinner offer with Blaine a few days after Jesse had extended it, making it very clear that he was absolutely fine with whatever Blaine wanted. In the end, worried that Blaine wouldn't be able to change his mind in front of Jesse and Rachel if he needed to, they had decided to forgo the restaurant. Instead, Blaine arrived at Kurt's a couple of hours before the Ball with his suit in tow ("If my parents ask you, we're having a Dress RehearsalTeam Bonding event," he'd told Kurt) and had dinner with Kurt's dad before getting ready.

Kurt had been avoiding refined carbs and sodium for a few days (and had done a quick set of crunches while Blaine was getting dressed in his bathroom) and the last minute tricks had helped: he looked positively _fabulous_ in his suit. His skin was clear, his shoes were shined; even his hair was cooperating, despite the minimal amount of hairspray he had used (wearing too much hair product and then sweating was a mistake that Kurt only intended to make once; _God, _his _eyes_). Stepping closer to the mirror on the back of the closet door, Kurt adjusted a single stray hair that had fallen out of place.

Perfect.

"Wow. Kurt, you look…incredible." Kurt turned away from the mirror—Blaine had opened the bathroom door without him noticing, and was standing on the edge of the tiling, bracing himself with one hand on each side of the doorframe. The position was causing his shirt to come untucked, but Kurt barely noticed. Instead, his eyes were drawn to Blaine's face: Blaine was looking at him with big, soft eyes, staring at him with an expression that was almost like awe.

Kurt didn't think anyone had ever looked at him like that before.

Smiling somewhat bashfully, Kurt looked down, straightening the lapels of his suit. "I do clean up well," he said slyly, looking back up when he heard Blaine's quiet laugh of approval. "So do you, by the way," he added, raking his eyes over Blaine with a grin. "Even more handsome in person."

Blaine looked confused for a moment, before glancing down at his suit and looking back up with a smile of recognition. "It's the same one as Christmas, you're right," he confirmed, tucking his shirt into his pants more carefully. He nervously straightened his bow tie (Kurt had initially been skeptical, but he had to admit it was a good look for Blaine). "Do you want to take pictures?" he asked shyly.

Kurt nodded eagerly. "Let's take them ourselves, though," he said quickly, thinking of all the blurry, halfhearted photo albums stacked on one of the shelves upstairs. "Let me get my camera."

They took a number of photos in front of the fireplace in the living room, starting out with formal, traditional poses before devolving into creative, sillier shots. When Blaine nearly knocked him over trying to get back into the shot and kiss his cheek before the timer went off and the camera took the picture, Kurt figured that Blaine was as relaxed as he was going to be, and that they should probably head out before Blaine _actually _knocked him over. They stopped upstairs to say a quick goodbye to Kurt's dad—who gruffly declared that Kurt got handsomer and more grown up every year—grabbed the envelope with their tickets off of the counter where they'd been sitting for a week, and walked out of the house, into the cold.

* * *

><p>Blaine was quiet on the drive to the dance, and Kurt had the sense that anything he said to Blaine at that moment would go unheard. It had snowed lightly that afternoon and Kurt needed both hands to drive, but he took Blaine's hand at every red light, squeezing softly and brushing his thumb over Blaine's knuckles to provide his boyfriend with reassurance in a way that might reach him. Once they'd reached the school and were waiting in a short line of cars to turn into Carmel's parking lot, Kurt chanced a glance at Blaine, whose profile was washed in red from the taillights of the cars and trucks in front of them. His expression worried Kurt—it wasn't the despair of a man being sent to the gallows, perhaps, but the weary resignation on his face wasn't much better.<p>

The parking lot was crowded, and Kurt pulled into a spot in the last row before turning to Blaine, engine still running. "We don't have to do this," he reminded Blaine, watching him carefully as he sat stiffly in the passenger's seat. "We can go home, if you want to. Or to the movies; we didn't get to see _Sherlock Holmes_ over Christmas because I got sick, and I know you wanted to go. I don't even have to turn the car off right now, if you don't want me to."

Blaine took a shuddering breath. "I don't want to do this," he admitted, eyes closed as he shook his head slowly. "But I need to. Let's just—let's just get inside. Okay?"

Kurt nodded. "Okay," he repeated, shutting off the engine and unfastening his seatbelt.

The walk across the parking lot was short. Blaine walked slightly faster than usual, keeping a death grip on Kurt's hand that Kurt would have balked at under normal circumstances, but his face remained resolutely calm and steady as Kurt opened the double doors leading into the school. Already, he could hear the sounds of music, shrieking, and laughter coming from down the hall, and he smiled at Blaine, whose hold on him was inexplicably starting to relax as they got closer to the dance itself.

They handed over their tickets and coats at the long tables outside the gym, guarded by two of Carmel's security guards, took one last look at each other (Kurt 's reassuring, Blaine's still painfully stoic), and walked hand in hand through the open doors leading into the Winter Ball.

The GSA had gone all out this year. The overhead lights in the room had been shut down, and colorful nets of holiday lights had been strung up everywhere, intermixed with flashing strobe lights that made the glittering streamers hanging all around the room shimmer and sparkle. A live band was playing in the far corner of the room, and a huge display of snacks and punch was set up immediately to the left of where Kurt and Blaine stood. One row of bleachers and a smattering of chairs, strewn around the room, had been left out for people to sit down, but the majority of the gym had been dedicated to the dance floor, which was packed with students.

Kurt let go of Blaine's hand and slid an arm around his waist. "Do you want to watch for a while?" he suggested, looking at Blaine as he stared at the dance floor, the tension in his features dissolving a little. "Ease yourself into it?" Blaine nodded, and Kurt tugged them along to get some punch, hoping that nobody had spiked it yet.

* * *

><p>Blaine had begun loosening up a little more as they sat on the bleachers with their plastic cups, picking out people they knew from the mass on the dance floor and commenting on their outfits (to nobody's surprise, Blaine was more lenient than Kurt in his assessments). When the band struck up a rendition of <em>Twist and Shout<em> fifteen minutes after their arrival, Kurt decided to push his luck.

"We have to dance," he insisted, "it's the Beatles, We listened to them on our first date, it's practically a rule."

Blaine hesitated for a moment, but tossed his cup into the nearest trash can and held out his hand for Kurt to take. Grinning absurdly, Kurt did, lacing his fingers together through Blaine's as he pulled his boyfriend onto the dance floor and into the crowd. "Sing with me?" Kurt asked, fluttering his eyelashes coyly before picking up the next line of the song: "_You know you twist so fine…"_

Blaine's smile was small, but genuine. "_Come on and twist a little closer now_," he sang back, "_and let me know that you're mine_." Kurt obliged, spinning around and pressing himself into Blaine's personal space, laughing as Blaine's hands swiftly flew up to steady him.

The rhythm between them was as easy as it had been the first time they danced together, and one song turned into two, then three, and so on until, half an hour later, Kurt and Blaine stumbled off the dance floor, out of breath and sweat-soaked but laughing all the same.

"He was doing that on Halloween, too," Blaine insisted, pointing behind them at Ben, who had cleared a wide circle in the crowd and was doing backflips to tremendous applause. "_Without _a shirt, too."

Kurt rolled his eyes, still smiling. "Ben does that at _every _party," he told Blaine. "The first time I saw it, I was terrified that he was going to slip and crack his head open."

Blaine laughed at him. "You sound like my mom," he informed Kurt, who made an indignant noise of protest and stuck his tongue out at his stupid, teasing boyfriend.

The punch had, indeed, been spiked while they had been dancing, so Kurt poured them both diet sodas. "You've used all my energy," he teased, chugging his drink and smiling at Blaine between gulps. "I need caffeine before I can go back out there."

Whatever Blaine was going to say in response was cut off by a delighted yell from several feet away. "Kurt! You're here!"

Kurt didn't need to look to know who it was but turned anyway, making himself smile graciously as Rachel Berry descended on them, wearing a pink confection of a dress and looking thrilled to see him. "Hello, Rachel," he called over the music. "Are you having a good time?"

Rachel nodded enthusiastically. "It's been wonderful, thank you!" she declared, grabbing his arm. "I'm sorry you and Blaine couldn't join us for dinner, but Jesse assures me that it was for the best—we ended up having a romantic candlelight dinner, and spending time alone together is what helps a relationship flourish and grow."

Without stopping to take a breath—_where was all her oxygen coming from? _Kurt wondered—Rachel turned to Blaine. "I don't believe we've been introduced," she said cheerfully, still grinning with a perfect show smile that Shelby would have loved. "I'm Rachel Berry—you've probably heard of me already: I'm the star of your competition and the girlfriend of your former lead singer. It's very nice to meet you."

Blaine looked slightly taken aback as Rachel shook his hand, and Kurt tried not to laugh. "That's right," he mused, "you two hadn't met. Where is Jesse, anyway, Rachel?"

Jesse's entrance couldn't have been more perfectly timed if he'd done it on purpose (so of course, he probably had). "Getting Rachel a drink," he answered Kurt, coming up from the side and handing Rachel a glass of water before draping his arm over her shoulder.

Rachel melted into Jesse's side, smiling gratefully. "I accidently ingested half a glass of punch before I was informed that somebody had added alcohol to it," she confided in the same loud tone she'd been using all along, causing all three boys to wince slightly and glance over at the closest chaperone—who was thankfully just out of earshot.

Rachel didn't seem to notice. "Jesse's promised that the effects will wear off shortly," she continued breezily. "Certainly before I go home, which is fortunate, as my Two Gay Dads are waiting up for me to come home so that they can hear all about the dance."

Before Rachel could continue, Jesse smiled at Kurt. "Kurt, it's been so long since we've seen each other, what with your illness," he pointed out, squeezing Rachel's shoulders. "Would you like to dance with me and catch up, for old time's sake?"

Kurt's eyebrows shot up. "I don't know if that's such a good idea," he answered cryptically, feeling Blaine's eyes on him.

"If you're worried about my reaction, you really don't need to be concerned," Rachel interjected earnestly. "I'm in no way threatened by your sexuality, having witnessed many platonic gay-straight relationships between my dads and other men, and am perfectly happy to show our support as Straight Allies by letting Jesse dance with you."

Kurt froze awkwardly for a moment, realizing that he really couldn't openly refuse for Blaine's sake in front of Rachel—not if she didn't know that Jesse had dated other boys (or more specifically, dated _him_) in the past as well as girls. "Thanks, Rachel," he said flatly, smiling back halfheartedly as she beamed proudly at him.

He turned to Blaine, who had been watching the conversation silently. "Blaine, is that okay with you?" he asked quietly, looking searchingly at him. "Just for one song, and I'll be right back?"

Blaine smiled tightly, seeming to realize that he and Kurt were backed into a corner, for Rachel's sake. "It's all right," he agreed politely. "I'll stay with Rachel, and you and I can dance to the next song."

Jesse smiled disarmingly. "Well, if that's settled, let's go, Kurt," he said cheerfully. "Rachel, would you keep Blaine company while we're gone? I'm sure you two will find plenty to talk about." Rachel agreed enthusiastically, and was already talking a mile a minute by the time Kurt and Jesse left her behind.

Kurt scowled at Jesse once they were out of earshot. "That was out of line, using your girlfriend like that," he snapped. "And 'old time's sake'—when have we ever danced together?"

Jesse smiled serenely back at Kurt. "I didn't put Rachel up to anything," he promised easily. "She really likes you; she doesn't have any gay friends that aren't at least twenty years older than her. There's a surprising dearth of homosexuals at McKinley.

"Well," he amended, "there is one cheerleader, but we're not sure if she's actually bisexual, or if she's just mastered the art of the casual hookup. We tried to ask her if she liked Barbra as much as we do, and she told us that he was her favorite King of the Elephants. And that she tried to convince her parents to go to Celesteville during summer vacation when she was seven, but they went to Chicago instead, to visit her aunt."

He held out his hand for Kurt to take. "And I think you're forgetting how we met," he chastised, leading Kurt onto the dance floor. "I taught you how to foxtrot on your very first Seminar day, remember?"

Kurt grudgingly conceded the point. Incoming freshman interested in joining Vocal Adrenaline were required to take a three week Seminar in July, to ensure they were up to the workload. The students who helped the Music Department staff run the program were handpicked by Shelby, and Jesse had unquestionably been the best: Vocal Adrenaline's top performer and star teacher, the one the incoming students tripped over themselves trying to impress.

He smiled at Kurt, leading him in time to the music, and Kurt realized absently that not much about Jesse had changed since then. The only real difference was Kurt, who wasn't a starry-eyed fourteen year-old anymore.

"Still," he pointed out, fighting the urge to roll his eyes, "I can only assume you haven't run into Shelby. Seeing as you got her daughter drunk at a school dance, and you're still alive."

Jesse shook his head, smiling. "Always ready to think the worst of me, aren't you, Kurt?" he observed, moving forward slightly into Kurt's space when a couple behind him brushed past his arm. "The punch bowl was an accident; I stopped to say hello to Andrea and didn't realized what Rachel was drinking at first." He shrugged casually. "And Shelby isn't here tonight, as a matter of fact," he added. "She took herself off of the volunteer list when I told her that Rachel and I were coming. They're not ready to meet yet."

Kurt frowned. "Why not?" he asked, curious. "You told me that the whole reason you're at McKinley in the first place is so that the two of them could form a relationship." A fact that had been hard-won—when Rachel had started asking about Jesse's old friends, mentioning repeatedly that she'd like to meet some of them, Jesse had been forced to tell Kurt Shelby's real motive for sending him away to befriend Rachel, in exchange for Kurt's silence about who her mother was.

Not that Kurt _really _would have dropped that bombshell on her; that would have been cruel. But Jesse didn't know that.

Jesse sighed. "There are legal complications," he explained to Kurt. "I won't go into detail because I don't want to confuse you"—Kurt glared—"but Rachel has to be the one to approach her."

Kurt glanced back to where they had left Blaine and Rachel standing and talking near the refreshments. And froze. Standing with the pair of them, dressed to—quite possibly literally—kill, was Giselle. And from what Kurt could see through the crowd, her contemptuous gaze was aimed straight at Rachel.

Kurt groaned. "Jesse, we need to go rescue our dates before Giselle eats them alive like a particularly vicious piranha," he deadpanned, causing Jesse to stop dancing mid-step and turn around.

"What, Giselle?" he asked innocently, in a surprised tone that Kurt knew from experience was fake. "Rachel can handle herself for another minute. Let's just finish the song, it's almost over."

Kurt drew back with a slight frown. "You stay if you want to," he argued, annoyed, "but I'm not leaving Blaine alone with two of your exes."

Jesse smiled, his eyes narrowed. "Do you really want to go over there and make it three?" he pointed out.

Kurt didn't flinch. "Do you really want Giselle to try and dig at Rachel by mentioning that little fact, and how you'd rather be dancing with your ex-boyfriend than your current girlfriend?" he wondered out loud in return.

Jesse winced slightly. "Maybe we should go get Rachel," he suggested lightly, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

* * *

><p>Jesse reached the group first, and as interested as he was in seeing how Jesse would manage to spin the situation and escape unscathed, Kurt had promised Blaine the next dance.<p>

"I'm so sorry," he apologized profusely, taking Blaine's hand as they slipped away from the others and headed for the dance floor. "I didn't think it was my place to say anything to Rachel, and I couldn't think of a different reason to say no. Are you mad?"

Blaine shook his head, looking down at his feet with a small smile. "No, I'm not mad," he assured Kurt. "He's your friend, and I knew you weren't dancing with him to hurt my feelings or anything."

Kurt sighed inwardly with relief, squeezing Blaine's hand. "Was it awkward, while we were gone?" he asked. "I know Rachel can be a bit…tactlessly exuberant." He deliberately avoided mentioning Giselle, remembering that Blaine had sort of liked her.

He needn't have bothered. "It was a little uncomfortable when Giselle came over," Blaine admitted in a rush of breath, as if he had been waiting to say it. "I don't think she liked Rachel very much."

They reached the crowd of dancers right as the band started the next song, a slower melody that Kurt recognized but couldn't place. "Of course, I can't blame her," Blaine continued, reaching up and wrapping his arms loosely around Kurt's shoulders. "If we hadn't gotten together and you were dating someone else, I'd probably hate them, too."

Kurt wrapped his own arms around Blaine's waist, pulling him closer. "I'm really glad we came tonight," he confessed shyly, gently stroking Blaine's back through his jacket. "It would have been fine if we had gone somewhere else, but…"

He trailed off, feeling his cheeks flushing slightly. "I don't know," he admitted. "I just like this, dancing with you."

Blaine's eyes were shining in the dark room. "Do you remember when we danced together on Halloween, out on the front porch?" he asked, tilting his head and looking at Kurt through his eyelashes. "I couldn't believe it the next morning—I couldn't believe that I had actually kissed you."

Kurt leaned forward, resting his forehead on Blaine's as they moved slowly along with the music. "I couldn't either. I had wanted to kiss you for_ever_," he said, laughing softly as Blaine's arms tightened around him. "I'd kiss you right now," he added, "if I didn't know it would make you uncomfortable in front of all these people."

Blaine stilled for a moment in Kurt's arms, looking away. After a minute, however, he looked back at Kurt, his eyes crinkling a bit as he smiled. "I know it's a little early," he began apologetically, "but would it be all right with you if we left after this dance? Go somewhere…less 'in front of all these people'?"

Kurt smiled back, pulling Blaine in closer. "For you, anything," he promised, laying his head down on Blaine's shoulder and letting his boyfriend take some of his weight. Blaine's hands slid down from behind his neck, encircling Kurt's back, and Kurt let his eyes flutter closed as he smiled into Blaine's skin.

Prom was going to be fantastic.

* * *

><p>Blaine's tension, which had seemingly dissipated during the dance itself, was back in full force as he and Kurt walked out the front doors of the school. In fact, they had barely made it two steps onto the sidewalk when Blaine froze up, tugging Kurt slightly off-balance when he didn't notice immediately that Blaine had stopped walking. "Blaine?" he asked gently, reaching over and stroking his arm up and down. "Are you okay?"<p>

Blaine took a deep, shuddering breath. "Fine," he said tightly, squeezing his eyes shut for a minute before forcing them back open.

Kurt frowned, trying to figure out where the sudden shift had come from. "Do you want me to get the car and come pick you up here?" he suggested, thinking that Blaine had been more relaxed inside the building. "There are guards right inside the door, you could wait with them, if you wanted, and one of them would walk you out, if we asked."

Blaine shook his head. "No," he said simply, his voice still sounding slightly strangled. "Let's—I want to walk with you. Can we…"

He trailed off, and Kurt threaded his arm through Blaine's. "Of course," he agreed, not sure what to do besides go along with what Blaine was saying. "May I escort you to your vehicle, Mr. Anderson?"

Blaine's smile was forced, but at least it was a smile. "You may," he replied, jamming his free hand in his coat pocket. "Let's go."

The parking lot, which was still packed with cars, was almost entirely devoid of people—as they walked through the rows, Kurt only saw one other person; a freshman girl in a pink dress who was digging for something in her purse. Still, Blaine didn't relax the entire time, his eyes darting nervously around them as they walked.

It was only when they reached the car, and Kurt locked the doors behind them after they climbed in, that Blaine let out a sigh of relief, sagging bonelessly in his seat as his eyes fluttered closed. "Thank you," he breathed quietly, groping blindly for Kurt's hand and holding it loosely. "I'm sorry about that; I just, got nervous, I guess."

Kurt nodded. Then remembered that Blaine couldn't see him. "That's okay," he added quickly. He swallowed. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked gently.

Blaine shook his head. "I just want to be with you," he replied. "I don't want to—I just want you. Can I…?" He paused, shaking his head as Kurt looked on, not sure what was going through Blaine's mind.

"Can you what?" Kurt prompted softly, leaning in closer. "What do you need me to do, Blaine?"

Blaine opened his eyes and turned toward Kurt in his seat. "Will you kiss me?" he asked, sounding almost tired. "Really, _really _kiss me, please?"

Kurt didn't hesitate. Yanking Blaine in by the lapels of his jacket, he kissed him hard, nipping at Blaine's bottom lip and making him gasp before licking into his mouth. Blaine kissed him back just as fiercely, undoing the buttons on Kurt's suit jacket and sliding his hands inside. His palms brushed over Kurt's chest, making Kurt hiss sharply as the fabric of his shirt dragged over his nipples, before sliding down and circling around Kurt's back, digging into the muscles there. He clutched at Kurt as Kurt released his mouth and latched onto his neck, licking and sucking a path over his sensitive skin as Blaine cried out in pleasure.

"Kurt, please," he moaned, as Kurt scraped his teeth lightly over the thin skin above his collarbone. Kurt tore his mouth away and straightened back up, reaching behind him and pulling at one of Blaine's hands as he did so. Grasping Blaine's fingers and guiding them to his face, Kurt leaned in and brought his lips back to Blaine's, silently encouraging him to take control of the kiss as he blindly shucked his overcoat and suit jacket. His sleeve got caught on his elbow, and Kurt tore at it harshly, not caring if he ended up ripping the fabric in the process. Finally, he was able to tug his arm loose, and he tossed both articles of clothing into the backseat before climbing over the gearshift and into Blaine's lap.

The seat was too cramped for Kurt to lower himself completely, but he did his best to straddle Blaine's hips, pressing his chest against Blaine's and taking Blaine's face in his hands as he kissed him aggressively, their tongues battling for dominance. Blaine's own hands were back on his waist, pulling Kurt impossibly closer, gripping him with a strength that was probably leaving bruises through his thin dress shirt. His knees were aching, bent and locked into place by most of his body weight, and he lifted himself up slightly, chest skimming over Blaine's as he attempted to give them some relief. No sooner was he up, though, than Blaine's hands were digging into his sides, slamming him back down and pressing their hips together.

Kurt let out a strangled yell at the sudden friction, which Blaine swallowed as he rocked up into Kurt. The windows around them were starting to steam up, and Blaine was panting harshly into his mouth and _god,_ he was going to lose it at any second if Blaine kept grinding into him like that, and—

"_Kurt,_" Blaine pleaded again, his hands starting to shake on Kurt's sides. Kurt pulled back to look at him, shoulders heaving as he caught his breath. Blaine looked sweaty and wrecked; his eyes dark and wide, lips red and swollen where Kurt had bitten them. His breath hitched as he stared at Kurt with a pleading expression, and Kurt's desire sharpened.

"Shh," he whispered gently, reaching down between them and stroking the top of Blaine's thigh, right where it met his hip. Blaine shuddered at the contact, a small noise escaping his throat. "Shh, it's okay," Kurt soothed again, "it's okay. I'll take care of you."

He moved his hands to the waistband of Blaine's pants, fingers poised just above the button. "Can I?" he asked breathlessly, his mouth already watering in anticipation.

Blaine paused for a moment, and Kurt felt his heart thudding in his chest, his skin tight and stretched with frayed nerves as he waited for Blaine's answer. An eternity later, Blaine nodded.

Kurt's heart leapt. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice still hushed.

Blaine nodded frantically. "Yes, I'm sure," he promised, sounding as strung out as Kurt felt. "Please."

That was all Kurt needed to hear before he'd thrown himself forward, kissing Blaine fiercely and desperately as his hands made short work of the button, hooks, and zipper on Blaine's pants. "It'll be so good, I promise," he breathed between kisses, rucking up Blaine's shirt and pulling his pants down a few inches to give him better access. "I've wanted to do this for you forever, _God, _Blaine." And with one final kiss, Kurt climbed off of Blaine's lap.

"Wait, where are you—" Blaine tried to ask with a whine as Kurt knelt on the driver's seat, but broke off with a shuddering moan as Kurt braced himself above Blaine's lap and kissed his straining erection with an open mouth. Even through Blaine's thin cotton boxers, Kurt could taste the salty, bitter drops of pre-come, a flavor that he'd had scant few opportunities to get used to. Still, the taste and smell and warmth and knowledge of what he was about to do were making it hard for Kurt to concentrate, and he was forced to lift his own hips higher in the air, purposely denying them any friction while he worked.

His own need lessened for the time being, Kurt swirled his tongue lightly over Blaine where the taste was strongest, before pressing his open mouth down and giving an experimental suck. Blaine keened sharply, and Kurt looked up just in time to see Blaine throwing a hand over his mouth, biting down on the skin to muffle his cry. Deciding he'd obviously teased Blaine enough, Kurt sat back long enough to tug at the waistband of Blaine's boxers, pulling them down far enough to expose Blaine's erection.

And if the fact that he was ready to _die _of sexual excitement over the prospect of sucking his boyfriend's cock wasn't enough to confirm that Kurt was definitely, no-doubt-whatsoever Gay, then the sudden heady, breathless wave of emotion that nearly knocked Kurt over at the sight of said boyfriend's cock probably would have done it.

Kurt didn't have a lot of experience in the matter—besides himself, he'd only ever seen one other boy naked before; he was a master at keeping his eyes averted in the locker room—but that was irrelevant. The fact that it was _Blaine _in front of him, breathing harshly and moaning and trusting Kurt enough to do this for him, to make him fall apart and help put him back together again—_that _was what made the sight in front of him the most beautiful thing that Kurt had even seen.

Resting his arm over Blaine's thighs, both for balance and to keep Blaine from bucking up into his mouth and choking him, Kurt swirled his tongue teasingly over the top of Blaine's cock one more time, before sinking his mouth down over it.

The angle was awkward, and Kurt couldn't take more than a few inches into his mouth, no matter how much he tried to relax his throat. That didn't seem to matter to Blaine, however, if the guttural moans tearing out of his throat and muffled by his hand were any indication. Kurt felt the hand that wasn't covering Blaine's mouth sink into his hair, twisting the strands without pulling them, and Kurt hummed in appreciation, making Blaine's head fall back and hit the headrest with an audible thump.

Kurt had only ever done this for one other person, and only a couple times at that, but he'd committed the basic mechanics to memory, and Blaine was so responsive that it was easy for Kurt to follow his lead. He sucked harder, enjoying the way that it made Blaine shudder under his hands, and pulled off long enough to lick up the thick vein on the underside of Blaine's cock before stroking the slit with his tongue and sinking back down.

It wasn't too much longer after that before Blaine was tensing up beneath him. "Kurt, I'm—" was the only warning he got before Blaine was coming down his throat in hot, salty spurts. Kurt stroked his thigh as he came, pulling off before Blaine could get too sensitive, and pushed himself back into a kneeling position. Gently tucking Blaine back into his boxers, Kurt wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and quickly raked his fingers through his hair, trying to fix some of the damage that Blaine's grip had done as he waited for Blaine to come back to him.

He didn't have long to wait: almost immediately, Blaine reached for Kurt, grabbing his upper arms and pulling Kurt toward him with a desperate strength Kurt would never have guessed that he had. Climbing over the gearshift, Kurt settled into Blaine's lap with his back against the door, stroking Blaine's damp, sweaty hair and kissing him wherever he could reach as Blaine clung tightly to his waist, face buried in Kurt's neck.

His harsh breathing slowly evened out over a minute or two, but his grip on Kurt stayed tight; his fingers clutching the back of Kurt's shirt in a way that Kurt knew would wrinkle, but was so entirely worth it.

Finally, Blaine looked up at Kurt. "I can't believe you just did that," he breathed, the awe apparent in his voice.

Kurt sighed happily, leaning his head back against the window. "I sort of can't either," he admitted ruefully. "It was amazing, don't get me wrong," he promised. "I'm so happy that I did. But I didn't exactly wake up this morning and think, 'Hey, I know what would be fun to do after the Ball tonight'."

Blaine's straight face lasted less than a second, before he snorted and started laughing. The vibration of his body underneath Kurt only served to remind him of how horribly turned on he still was, and he shifted slightly in Blaine's lap, trying to relieve some of the pressure in his groin without being obvious about it.

Apparently his movement wasn't subtle enough, however, because a second later Blaine was staring at his crotch, hand hovering awkwardly over the zipper. "Should I—I mean, do you want me to…" Blaine asked, making Kurt groan.

Because God, he really, _really _did. But the look on Blaine's face was more nervous than eager, and even if his body was screaming at him for being such an idiot, and to let Blaine touch him already, he knew he didn't want it like that.

He sighed. "No, it's—Hey, no," he stumbled, as Blaine's expression went from nervous to crestfallen and hurt in less than two seconds at Kurt's seeming rejection. "Blaine, it's not—"

"It's fine, Kurt," Blaine cut him off in a clipped, embarrassed tone. "I get it."

"No, you don't," Kurt argued softly, trying not to let Blaine's sudden shutdown upset him. He cupped Blaine's face gently with both hands, hunching over slightly in Blaine's lap so that he could look at him. "It's not that I don't want you to," he explained carefully, not breaking eye contact. "But I know that I sort of…sprung this on you—oh, my—pun _not _intended, thank you," he stopped himself, both of them starting to laugh inappropriately as they realized what Kurt had said.

Kurt shook his head in amusement, all of the sudden tension gone. "_Anyway_," he tried again, rolling his eyes. "What I meant to say was, please don't feel like you need to reciprocate, just because I did it first. In fact, as much as I need you to touch me right now, I'd be so much happier in the long run if you waited until you knew you were ready. That way, when it happens, I'll know that the only reason you're doing it is because you want to. Because you want me."

Blaine's smile was soft. "I always want you," he said quietly.

He looked down at Kurt's lap again with a slight frown. "Are you sure you don't need…something?" he asked, sounding a little concerned. "You're shaking."

It was true—Kurt's body had calmed down somewhat since they'd begun talking, but he was still on edge; his erection straining his pants in a way that would have been embarrassing, if Blaine's pants hadn't still been unzipped and exposing his underwear. "It's fine," he said tightly, another unfortunately timed flood of arousal hitting him now that attention was being called to his…_problem._ "I just need a minute to cool off," he promised. "Think unsexy thoughts."

He let out a bracing sigh, running through the mental checklist of mood-killers that had become necessary when he turned thirteen and started experiencing some of the more embarrassing side effects of puberty. _Dead kittens, naked women_, he began wearily, the accompanying mental images beginning to sober him up. _Car accidents, more naked women, people chewing with their mouths open._ Slowly, the shaking began to subside as Kurt's body began to relax.

Unfortunately, that was when Blaine tried to be helpful and contribute. And as it turned out, he was _way _better at that game than Kurt would ever be:

"Syphilis is a sexually transmitted disease that presents itself in one of four stages, and is associated with infectious skin lesions, most notably on the genital and rectal areas," Blaine recited serenely, making Kurt choke on the breath he'd been taking. "Rates of infection are highest in men who fornicate with other men, and males are also more likely to die from the disease, which can also leave a pustular rash all over the body."

The blood drained from Kurt's cock at an alarming speed that was nearly painful.

"You can stop anytime you want," he growled, dropping his slightly damp face into his hands.

Blaine went quiet. For a moment, anyway. "Also, carnal expressions of love are only sanctified within the sacrament of marriage, and Jesus sees you touch yourself at night," he added with a grin.

"_And, _we're done," Kurt interrupted quickly, climbing off of Blaine's lap and back into the driver's seat, Blaine laughing at him.

Kurt glared back at him without any real malice, keeping his eyes on Blaine's face as Blaine tucked in his shirt and zipped his pants back up. "That was just harsh," he huffed. "I may never recover from that mental assault."

Blaine's self-satisfied smile weirdly resembled Jesse's in that moment. "My Sex-Ed class was taught by an elderly nun," he pointed out. "I'm not sure what you were expecting when you said 'Think unsexy thoughts'."

Kurt shook his head with a sigh as he turned the car on. "What time do you have to be home?" he asked, glancing at the glowing _10:49_ on the stereo.

"Midnight," Blaine reminded him, looking at the clock as well. "If we go back to your house now, I should have just enough time to change and make it home." _After which, I'll definitely need the world's longest shower,_ Kurt mused, putting the car into reverse.

Before he could pull out of the space, however, Blaine reached over and laid a hand on his arm. "How did you know?" he asked curiously. "That you were ready?"

Kurt bit his lip, thinking, as he put the car back into park. "Well," he said slowly, "I told you that it was something I'd wanted to do for a while." Blaine nodded, encouraging him to continue. Kurt took another breath. "I did. Think about it a lot, that is. Often at inappropriate times, actually. But when we got back to the car, and we were kissing…the way that you looked at me. I just knew that it was something I wanted to do for you, right then, if you were ready to let me."

He shifted in his seat a little, not meeting Blaine's eyes. "And maybe I would have been ready tonight no matter what we did, but I know it took a lot for you to come to the Ball tonight," he explained. "That you have a lot of bad memories of the last dance you went to. I guess….part of me wanted you to have something nice to associate it with, instead?"

That explanation sounded a little weird, even to him, and Kurt wasn't sure what Blaine would think of it—whether he'd be mad, uncomfortable, think that Kurt was insane, etc.

What he didn't expect was for Blaine to lean back in his seat and start laughing helplessly.

"Oh my God, I feel like Pavlov's dog," Blaine complained between breaths. "I can't believe you used your tongue as a mental modification tool."

Kurt's eyes widened in protest. "I did not!" he argued, as Blaine continued to laugh.

Blaine raised an eyebrow. "Really?" he asked, still smiling widely. "Because I was thinking just now that I was going to have to give you your cupcake tonight, instead of leaving it for you to find tomorrow for our anniversary. You know, just so that you'd have something nice to associate getting into my pants with," he teased.

Kurt's retort died on his tongue. "You got me a cupcake?" he asked, thinking of the mixed cd that was tucked into his desk at home—he hadn't been sure if Blaine would be into anniversaries or not, but he had wanted to be prepared: three months was a pretty big deal.

"It's an oversized one made with brownie mix," Blaine offered, suddenly shy. "I even made it with applesauce and egg whites, since I know you don't like eating things with too much saturated fat."

Sitting there in his suit in Kurt's car, skin dimly lit by the nearby streetlights and eyes looking at him with a mixture of nervousness and hope, Blaine had never been more beautiful. Kurt felt his heart clench. "What did I do to deserve you," he said, more a statement than a question.

Blaine didn't answer out loud, but reached over the seat to take Kurt's hand in his own, squeezing it tightly.

* * *

><p>Kurt's iPod was back at the house, and he had turned the radio down when they had first arrived at Carmel so that he and Blaine could talk. Consequently, when Blaine started singing under his breath during the drive home, Kurt heard him almost immediately.<p>

"_I've, had, the time of my life," _Blaine sang quietly, leaning against the passenger window and smiling at Kurt, _"no I've never felt like this before."_

Kurt looked at him, mind blown. "_Dirty Dancing?_" he asked incredulously. "You're really going there?"

Blaine shook his head, grinning even wider. "_Yes I swear, it's the truth," _he continued, slightly louder in response, _"and I owe it all to you."_

"Does this mean I can check 'Going down on Patrick Swayze' off my bucket list?" Kurt asked dryly. "Because I scrapped that one after he died last year, but if you're willing to be a stand-in…"

Blaine continued singing as Kurt drove, much to Kurt's amusement. It was only when Blaine reached for his hand when they were stopped at a red light, eyes shining, that Kurt began to feel warmth spreading down to places he did _not _want blood flowing to while he was trying to drive.

"_You're the one thing," _Blaine sang quietly, stroking the back of Kurt's hand softly with his thumb and looking Kurt in the eye, _"I can't get enough of."_

_Syphilis, _Kurt thought darkly, as the light changed to green. _Syphilis, syphilis, syphilis._


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19/30ish, the whole thing this time. _Yay….cheers._

The whole beast, in its entirety. If you held off on reading the chapter until the second half was up, go nuts! If you don't have two hours to read and you only want the new material, scroll a little less than halfway down and start with the section that begins, "When Blaine woke up on Friday morning".

You are lovely and patient creatures; bless you and your cows.

* * *

><p>Blaine was clutching the toilet, willing himself to either throw up or die, when his mother peeked into the bathroom, dark hair disheveled and bathrobe only half-concealing the pajamas that Blaine had bought her for Christmas.<p>

"Blaine?" she whispered, voice still rough with sleep. "Oh, sweetie."

Blaine closed his eyes, fighting another wave of nausea. His mom sat down on the edge of the bathtub and stroked his sweaty hair. "Was it another nightmare?" she asked sympathetically.

Blaine nodded miserably, leaning into her touch. The dreams had been different every night, but certain elements remained the same each time: a parking lot, faceless strangers, darkness. Pain. His mouth filling with blood, making it impossible for him to breathe. And, every time he woke, his body trying to rid itself of the phantom streams of coppery blood flowing down his throat that only existed in his memory.

One of his parents, usually his mother, would hear him retching uselessly in his bathroom and would come in to take care of him. Neither of them could understand why Blaine's nightmares had begun again, so suddenly and consistently.

Particularly his mother. "Honey, this is the fourth night in a row," she pointed out—unnecessarily, in Blaine's opinion. "I really think we should call Dr. Ramirez."

Blaine shook his head. "I'll talk to her at my appointment tomorrow," he said hoarsely. He coughed a little, trying to clear his throat. "What time is it?"

His mother frowned, but didn't argue. "Almost six," she answered, continuing to card her fingernails over Blaine's scalp. Blaine concentrated on the pleasant sensation, ignoring his still-queasy stomach.

She sighed. "Do you want to stay home from school?" she asked, for the third morning that week. When Blaine answered in the negative yet again, she stood up, gingerly patting his shoulder. "I'll make you some tea," she told him, starting for the door. "Peppermint again?"

Blaine nodded, slumping back against the bathtub as he listened to her slippers pattering down the hall.

He'd lied to his parents when asked, saying that he couldn't remember what he had dreamed. He'd lied to Kurt as well, excusing the shadows under his eyes and his sluggish demeanor with claims that he was starting to come down with something (resulting in sympathetic looks and packets of Vitamin C along with his morning coffee).

He couldn't lie to himself, however: the night terrors, which had seemingly faded back in October, had begun again on Saturday night, only a few hours after he had gotten home from the Winter Ball. And he had no idea how to make them stop.

Picking himself up off the floor, Blaine stumbled over to the sink and washed his mouth out. When the rancid taste was finally gone, he tiredly dried his hands and counted his morning dose of pills into his palm, swallowing them all at once before draining a glass of water. The painkillers from the hospital were long gone, and with them the constant state of grogginess that Blaine hadn't noticed until after their lingering effects had faded. All that remained were the pink and yellow tablets in their bright orange cylinders, garish and misleadingly cheerful in their spot in the medicine cabinet.

Blaine stood for a long moment, staring at his greyish complexion in the mirror, before reopening one of the bottles and shaking out an extra pill.

Just this once.

Again.

* * *

><p>As usual, Kurt beat Blaine to school that morning, and was leaning against his locker with an extra cup of coffee when Blaine finally dragged himself down the hall.<p>

"Cutting it awful close today," Kurt pointed out with an easy smile, handing Blaine his styrofoam cup and moving to the side so that Blaine could reach the combination lock. "Class starts in five minutes."

Blaine took a grateful sip. "It took me a while to get going this morning," he admitted, struggling out of his coat. "I might not be very good company this afternoon."

Kurt reached out and took back the coffee, folding his arms in front of him as Blaine hung up his coat and scarf and began sorting through his books. "Are you still feeling sick?" he asked, twisting his mouth sadly. "If you'd rather go home and sleep, I'd understand. You should probably take advantage of a rehearsal-free day and rest up."

Blaine shook his head. "No, I still want to come over," he insisted, thinking dully of his half-hearted attempts at sleep over the past several days. "I just can't promise that I'll be very much fun to hang out with."

"You're always fun," Kurt disagreed lightly. He studied Blaine for a minute, contemplating. "Listen—after school, why don't you drive straight to my house and wait for me there?" he suggested. "There's a coffee shop not too far away that makes life-changing mochas; I could stop by and pick some up for us on the way home."

He brandished Blaine's coffee cup and Blaine took it, cradling it with both hands as he leaned forward, resting his forehead on Kurt's shoulder. "Best boyfriend ever," he declared, words slightly muffled by the fabric of said-boyfriend's shirt.

"Well, some people dance, some people play music," Kurt mused, his smile evident in his voice. "I slogged through years of 'How To Be a Good Boyfriend' classes for just this very occasion."

"There's a picture of six year-old you in tap shoes on your piano," Blaine pointed out, amused.

Kurt leaned back slightly to look at Blaine, who straightened back up in order to drink his coffee. "Is there?" Kurt wondered out loud. "I must just be an overachiever, then," he confided, making Blaine smile.

The warning bell rang, making Kurt groan. "I have to go; English class," he lamented. "I can hardly protest my grade on the Gatsby paper if I'm not actually _there_ when he hands out the papers."

Blaine rolled his eyes. "You'll be fine," he said fondly, "your paper was terrific. I proofread it, remember?" Kurt didn't look entirely convinced, but he nodded anyway, kissing Blaine on the cheek and promising to see him 4th period before rushing down the hall to class.

Blaine closed his locker, looking down at the mostly-full cup of coffee in his hand. Even though Kurt had obviously been joking, Blaine couldn't help but feel a little guilty that Kurt was so much better at the whole 'boyfriend' thing than he was. _Maybe Dr. Ramirez has a support group for that, too_, he thought darkly, slinging his bag over his shoulder and diving into the stream of students hurrying to 1st period.

* * *

><p>Blaine was either more tired than he had originally thought, or the school day had been so boring that it simply <em>seemed<em> like he had been at Carmel for a thousand years by the time the final bell rang and he could drive to Kurt's house. Whatever the reason, both his classes and the drive to Lima had dragged on forever, with nothing of interest to distract him.

Except for one thing:

_Lunch in the cafeteria that day was a reasonably edible chicken patty, and Blaine was dutifully scraping the sauce off of his when Giselle sat down across from him. She was still wearing her coat, a fur-trimmed denim jacket buttoned all the way up to the collar, and it wasn't until she reached into her purse and pulled out a Wendy's bag that Blaine realized that it wasn't just for show; she had actually been outside. _

_Pulling two wrapped sandwiches out of the bag, she tossed one across the table to Blaine and peeled the foil off of the other, revealing a much tastier-looking chicken sandwich than the one Blaine had been working on. "No mayo, it's gross and unhealthy," she said without preamble, sounding remarkably like Kurt in that moment. Blaine smiled, thinking of how Kurt would resent the comparison, before opening his own identical sandwich._

"_Thank you; what's this for?" he asked politely, watching Giselle take a huge bite. She rolled her eyes, chewing and swallowing, before smiling at him. _

"_A bribe," she explained, when her mouth was free. "I need a tenor to back me up at Evaluations next month, and I want you to do it."_

_Blaine stared at her. "People are already thinking about that?" he wondered, deciding it was a less awkward question than 'why me?'. _

_Giselle nodded. "Usually by spring break, most people have picked out their songs, and have started scouting for a partner," she told him. "All those days off make it easier to find time to practice." She frowned. "You're not going on vacation next week, are you?" Blaine shook his head, and her smile returned. "Good," she declared, pleased. "So you'll do it?"_

Blaine had looked down at his sandwich and agreed, not able to think of a reason why he shouldn't—Giselle _had_ bought him lunch and seemed to like him, and even Kurt, who avoided Giselle whenever possible, had said that she was incredibly talented. Plus, practicing with her would give him something to do over the break when Kurt was working, or when his Grandma was busy. Giselle had promised to bring him his sheet music the following day—she was still deciding between three songs, apparently—and had left Blaine alone with his sandwich and his thoughts.

It didn't…_bother _him, necessarily, but it did seem unusual that Kurt hadn't mentioned how soon everyone started preparing for Evaluations. It wasn't likely that Kurt—who knew everything about Vocal Adrenaline, down to how to unstick the cabinet that held extra pairs of tinted contact lenses—was unaware of his fellow singers' movements. But then again, Blaine had to acknowledge, he _had _been somewhat of a wreck over the past couple of weeks, first because of the looming Winter Ball, and then because of the nightmares. It was entirely possible that Kurt was simply waiting until vacation began to mention anything about Evaluations, in order to avoid stressing Blaine out. Or—

Blaine's half-formed thoughts dissipated as Kurt's Navigator turned into the driveway and pulled up next to Blaine's car. Beyond tired and moving slowly, Blaine unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the car, walking around to Kurt's open door as his boyfriend struggled to balance all of his things without spilling their coffee.

"Thank you," Kurt breathed, when Blaine reached forward to relieve him of the corrugated cardboard tray. "You weren't waiting for too long, were you? I should have just given you my house key, but I didn't think of it until I was in line at the coffee shop."

Blaine closed Kurt's car door for him and followed him up the path to the front porch. "It was fine, I had to stop for gas anyway," he said truthfully. When pressed, however, he admitted that he _was _kind of cold, prompting Kurt to lend him a Carmel hoodie ("not my color, but they were for a promotional event last year") and pile all the spare blankets on top of him so that he could drink his mocha in warmth and comfort.

And the mocha? Even more delicious than promised—he'd have to start frequenting the Lima Bean, wherever that was.

Cocooned on Kurt's bed, Blaine watched as Kurt flitted around the room, straightening books and photos and moving things that Blaine hadn't even realized were out of place, talking the whole time about some incident in his gym class that involved a team of upperclassmen getting creamed at basketball by a pack of tiny freshman girls because of their inability to strategize or see the bigger picture.

"And the whole thing made me think about the last few rehearsals, and I can't believe I've been so obtuse this whole time," he concluded, rolling his eyes and taking a sip of his mocha, which sat abandoned on his desk whenever he wasn't actively drinking it.

Blaine turned his own cup in his hands. "Okay, you've lost me," he admitted ruefully. "What did you figure out?"

Kurt smiled indulgently at him. "What message Shelby's trying to send me, by finishing the Dylan piece before _Vanilla Twilight_," he explained, naming one of their group numbers and his solo. Blaine nodded in understanding—Kurt had reacted graciously enough during Monday's rehearsal, when Shelby had announced that they were spending most of the week tweaking the Bob Dylan medley, but had latched too tightly onto his shoulders in the car afterward, refusing to speak for a good five minutes while Blaine rubbed his back soothingly. But…

"What message?" he wondered, not putting the pieces together the way Kurt obviously had.

Kurt's smile faltered slightly. "Well, it could be one of two things, really," he admitted, sitting down on the bed near Blaine's feet. "It's a little ambiguous. But Shelby almost never does anything by accident, and by putting me third behind a _group number_, she's either gently trying to warn me that she has no intention of picking my solo for Regionals, or she's challenging me; making me work to avoid getting complacent."

He shrugged, his attempt at a casual dismissal fairly transparent to Blaine's eyes. "Obviously, I'd prefer one more than the other," he added with a small sigh.

Blaine, once again blown away by the lengths everyone in Vocal Adrenaline went to in order to avoid simple, straightforward communication, reached out and rubbed Kurt's shoulder. "Well, obviously it's going to be the second one," he reasoned, trying to make Kurt smile again. "Why _wouldn't_ she pick you? You're amazing."

His attempt only half worked: Kurt did smile, but sadly and delicately, as if he was about to explain the truth about Santa to a child. "She wouldn't pick me because she's going to pick you, Blaine," he said quietly. "She can't have two of our three songs for Regionals sung by underclassmen; it's already unusual enough that we're both singing leads in rehearsals. It just isn't done."

Blaine stared at him, stunned. "But you're better than I am," he protested faintly. "Haven't you heard yourself sing?"

"Haven't you?" Kurt countered, raising an eyebrow. "Blaine, _Bohemian Rhapsody _is an incredible number. And even if you didn't realize it at first, you have to know by now how talented you are."

Blaine shook his head slowly. "Shelby'll have to pick you," he insisted, not able to fathom otherwise. "Jesse's coming back before Regionals, and he'll take my duet back, and the age thing won't be an issue."

Kurt's expression flickered for just a second, before he pasted a smile back on. It was small, barely even noticeable, but it was just enough to let Blaine know that he had missed something.

Kurt sighed. "Well, whatever it is, Shelby's going to be watching to see how I react," he said, clearly eager to move on to a new topic. "So if I want a chance at another solo next year, I'm just going to have to work even harder during rehearsals, and blow her away next month at Evaluations."

It was the perfect segue into what Blaine had been wondering about earlier. "Is it true that everyone's already picking their songs and partners for that?" he asked, leaning back into Kurt's stack of pillows and placing his nearly-empty coffee cup on the nightstand.

Kurt's controlled expression softened. "Some people already have, I'm sure," he replied, "but definitely not everyone. I, personally, still have about forty tabs from the music library open on my computer."

Blaine nodded, because _of course_ he did. "Will you sing with me for my Evaluation?" he asked shyly, remembering how much he'd wanted to sing with Kurt in the fall, when he'd been ineligible and Kurt had already been working with Sasha.

Kurt looked surprised for half a second, before his face broke out into a big, beautiful smile. "Of course I will," he agreed eagerly, leaning against Blaine's bent knees and wrapping his arms around Blaine's legs. "Like I would have said anything else," he scoffed teasingly. "What song did you pick?"

Blaine shrugged. "I don't know," he said, thinking about some of the possibilities—Kurt had such a tremendous range, that finding—

"Oh, no—Blaine," Kurt interrupted, rubbing Blaine's knee with a gentle hand, "don't ask me to sing with you until you know _what_ you're going to sing. What if you choose a song that you need someone with a different vocal part for?"

Blaine's smile faded slightly. "But I wouldn't; I want to sing with _you_," he pointed out.

Kurt's expression was an interesting mix of fondness and pity—on anyone else, it would have been uncomfortably condescending. "I know, and I love that," he agreed, sighing. "And I can't believe I'm saying this, as I'm technically your competition, but wanting to sing with me isn't really the point—the point is to do the best that _you_ can possibly do."

When Blaine continued to frown, Kurt crawled across the bed and sat down next to him, leaning against the pillows. "It's the same for everyone," he explained. "I mean, obviously you and Sasha are my first choices for vocal partners. But what if the best song choice for me turns out to be one that features a soprano part? Ultimately, I'd have to pick the song that best showcases my talent, improves upon my weaknesses, and is designed so that another singer would enhance my voice, rather than distract the listener. It's not a _personal_ thing."

Up until that moment, Blaine hadn't actually thought about who Kurt might or might not pick for a partner. Even still, he was unpleasantly jolted by the thought that Kurt would pick anyone other than him to sing with. "Why does it matter so much?" he asked, trying to keep his sudden moodiness out of his voice—it wouldn't do either of them any good if he picked a fight with Kurt over the issue, not until he had a chance to think about _why_ exactly the idea hurt his feelings.

Kurt shifted beside him. "Because we don't get many chances to show off individually in front of Shelby," he explained. "This is how you get noticed. Your talent, your ability to take direction and initiative—that's what moves you up the ranks in Vocal Adrenaline."

Blaine scoffed inwardly. "And what if I don't care about that?" he argued, before he could stop himself.

Even if Kurt hadn't stiffened next to him, Blaine would have realized immediately that he had said the wrong thing. Because maybe he didn't care whether he was first or fortieth in Shelby's eyes, but Kurt did.

And he knew that Blaine knew that.

When Kurt spoke again, his voice was clipped. "Then I would remind you that you're in an elite group of very ambitious people, most of whom would give _anything_ to have your talent," he said tightly. "And that almost none of them will ever get there."

Blaine felt horrible for hurting Kurt's feelings the way he had, even if he hadn't meant to. "I'm sorry. I didn't…I'm just tired. I'm sorry," he apologized, reaching over and taking one of Kurt's hands in his own. "I don't want to fight over this."

He paused. "Will you help me choose a song for Evaluations? One that you can sing with me?" he asked, squeezing Kurt's fingers lightly. "You know how to do this sort of thing so much better than I do."

Somewhat mollified, Kurt agreed, and the pair spent the afternoon singing bits and pieces from what felt like every song ever written.

* * *

><p>That night, Blaine woke up tangled in his blankets on the floor, his parents hovering worriedly over him and his voice hoarse from screaming.<p>

* * *

><p>Blaine was on the verge of falling asleep in his chair when Dr. Ramirez came to get him from her office's plush waiting room. Despite having been kept home from school that day to 'rest'—prompting several concerned texts from Kurt, who promised chicken soup and a trip to see his lions on their date the next day—Blaine hadn't been able to go back to sleep after unceremoniously waking his entire household at 4:30am, and had spent most of the day parked in front of the television like a zombie.<p>

When Dr. Ramirez commented on his exhausted appearance and received his 'getting sick' excuse in return, she let it slide for the moment. "So," she began, crossing her legs and smoothing her pencil skirt with both hands. "Tell me about the dance."

Despite associating his recent sleeplessness with the Ball, Blaine couldn't help but smile. "Really good," he answered, pulling his legs up on the couch, "much better than I thought it was going to be."

Dr. Ramirez looked genuinely happy for him. "I'm so glad to hear that," she told him, writing a note on her legal pad. "Did you and Kurt dance?"

Blaine nodded. "Nobody gave us any trouble over it," he mentioned. "We didn't really talk to a lot of other people, but some of our friends stopped to say hi."

"And when you were leaving, how did you feel?" Dr. Ramirez prompted. "I remember you said that that was the part of the evening that had you the most concerned."

Blaine's mouth went dry. "I was scared shitless," he admitted. "Even though I knew we were safe, I was…I don't know. Terrified. It was such a relief to get to the car and have it be over."

Dr. Ramirez nodded. "How did Kurt respond to your reaction?" she wanted to know.

Blaine blushed, looking down at his lap in order to avoid her eyes. Then, deciding that _that _wasn't really where he wanted to be looking either, he stared resolutely at the floor. "I don't want to talk about that," he said, working to keep his voice steady.

Dr. Ramirez hummed. "Would I be concerned, if I knew why?" she asked him, sounding more curious than upset at his refusal.

Blaine shook his head, still studying the white carpet. "No, it's nothing bad," he assured her, "it's just…" He sighed. "It'd be embarrassing to talk about with you."

Blaine could hear her pen scratching across the paper. "Is there anyone else you'd feel comfortable talking to about it?" she asked. Blaine shrugged, and they were both quiet for a moment.

"Would it help at all," Dr. Ramirez asked finally, "if I told you that I originally started my doctoral work intending to become a Sex and Relationship Counselor?"

Blaine's head snapped up of its own accord. "Wait, how did you even—really?" he stammered, slightly incredulous.

Dr. Ramirez was smiling gently. "Educated guess, and really," she assured him, straightening her glasses. "Despite switching my focus, I still think it's an important field. There are a lot of cultural taboos surrounding sex and sexuality, to the extent that it can be a tremendously difficult thing to talk about, especially with the people closest to you."

She tilted her head slightly, looking at him. "But there's nothing wrong with being sexually active, Blaine," she said calmly, "as long as you and Kurt are both honest with each other about what you are and aren't comfortable with, and you respect each other's limits."

It was, quite possibly, the last topic Blaine ever thought he'd choose to discuss with a therapist—he had meant it when he said it was embarrassing for him to talk about. Still, listening to Dr. Ramirez tell him that there was nothing wrong with him unknotted something deep within Blaine, filling him both with a deep sense of relief, and the feeling that he might burst into tears at any moment.

As if it were something he had desperately needed to hear all along, even if he had never consciously realized it.

"We didn't," he said slowly, feeling his cheeks heat up. "Have sex, I mean. Not really. We…he…"

He paused, struggling to think of a way to articulate his jumbled thoughts. Dr. Ramirez waited quietly, observing him without making him feel like he was being stared at—a skill his parents could have used lessons in.

"I want to be able to be comfortable in it, like he is," he said finally. "Because I want things, with Kurt. But it's hard, because I don't really know what I'm doing, or what I should be doing."

Dr. Ramirez leaned back in her chair. "Do you feel ready to be intimate with him?" she asked. "Not just your body, or your hormones, but the rest of you as well?"

"I'm not ready for everything," Blaine answered immediately. "Definitely not. But…I am ready for other things. To reciprocate, I guess. I just—I feel like I'd be more comfortable telling him that if I knew _what _to do, physically."

It was a fairly mortifying admission to make, and Blaine was almost disproportionately grateful when Dr. Ramirez didn't bat an eyelash at it. "How comprehensive is the Sex Education program at your school?" she asked instead.

Blaine shrugged. "I don't know," he answered honestly, "I don't know when they teach it at Carmel. And…"

He paused, twisting his mouth. "I wasn't really 'compatible' with the class at Aquinas," he admitted ruefully.

Dr. Ramirez nodded in understanding. "And I take it this isn't a topic you want to broach with your parents," she said knowingly.

Blaine flinched slightly at the idea. "No," he agreed. "You're not going to try and make me, are you?"

Dr. Ramirez shook her head. "I'd encourage you to consider asking them any questions you have, of course," she replied, "but it would be irresponsible of me to try and force such a conversation, especially without knowing how they'd react.

"Besides," she added, "even the most enlightened, sex-positive parents probably wouldn't, nor should they, be comfortable being your sole source of information."

When Blaine nodded, she smiled. "Would you be more comfortable with books or the internet? Nothing pornographic, I promise—just some resources that might answer some of your questions, and that address sexual issues from a more holistic standpoint."

Blaine had, indeed, blanched a bit at the initial question, and was only slightly relieved by her assurances. "Um, the internet, I guess," he mumbled, turning red. Though he was sure that she noticed, she didn't say anything about it as she unlocked one of the drawers in her filing cabinet, flipping through folders until she found the one she was looking for.

"These are all websites designed for teenagers," she explained, pulling a half sheet of paper out of the file and closing the drawer. Sitting back down, she picked up her pen. "I'm marking the ones that have forums, where you can ask your own questions and have discussions with other members," she continued, starring two of the addresses, "but all of them are good sources of information."

She held the sheet out to Blaine, who reached forward and took it. "And they have information about…" he started, scanning the list curiously.

"Some of them are exclusively geared toward gay or questioning youth," she answered, picking up on the gist of his unfinished question. "The others are more open-ended, but should help with some of your worries. And everyone has worries, Blaine," she added. "You're certainly not the first person to come in here not knowing what to do, or how to ask for what you want. But I'll let you in on a secret."

Blaine looked up from the paper.

Dr. Ramirez smiled. "No matter who you're with or how long you're together, be it an hour or forty years, your number one resource is always going to be your partner or partners," she told him gently. "There's no 'right way' to have sex, and different people prefer different things. Asking Kurt what he wants from you, and being prepared to answer in kind, will tell you more about how to approach your sex life—and your relationship in general—than any book or website ever could."

Blaine swallowed. "What if I'm not ready for that?" he asked, voice unsteady.

Dr. Ramirez adjusted her glasses. "That may be something you find out," she acknowledged. "You're the only one who can answer these questions—not me, not those websites or your parents, not even Kurt."

Blaine looked back down at the paper in his hand. "Am I allowed to ask why you didn't become a sex therapist?" he asked wryly, thinking with no small amount of irony that their talk had been the longest discussion he'd ever had about anything sexual that didn't imply he'd eventually end up with an STD.

Dr. Ramirez looked surprised by the question, and Blaine cringed. "Sorry, that was—you don't have to answer that," he said quickly, biting his lip in remorse.

"No," Dr. Ramirez disagreed, "that's a fair question; it's just been a while since anyone's asked me that." She paused, thinking. "I suppose the best answer that I have is that I felt like most of the people I encountered in my clinical observations weren't looking for help or answers, as much as they were looking for someone to validate their own bad behaviors—cheating in ways that put their partners in danger, mostly. I'm not interested in helping people stagnate, but I can't force someone to heal and grow if that's not what they want for themselves."

Blaine nodded slowly. "Am I?" he asked. "Growing?"

Dr. Ramirez looked at him. "Well, let's think about that," she said neutrally. "Think about yourself back in the fall, during your first appointment with me. How does that person compare to the You that's sitting here right now?"

Toward the end of the appointment, Blaine brought up his week of nightmares, and his confusion over them happening now that the Ball was over. "I'm still on all the medications that Dr. Weinstein put me on, but they're not helping," he added listlessly, picking at the bottom of his shirt with his fingernails.

Dr. Ramirez nodded seriously. "They're not helping with the nightmares, or they're not helping in general?" she wanted to know.

Blaine looked down. "The first one," he answered. "But…isn't _that _sort of 'in general'?" he argued. "I mean, I'm on all of this anti-anxiety medication; why do I have so much anxiety that I'm waking everyone up with my bad dreams every night?"

"Remind me how long your nightmares lasted when you were first hospitalized," Dr. Ramirez countered.

Blaine blinked—it had been a long time since anyone had referred to that night as anything other than 'The Incident' or 'The Dance'.

'Hospitalization' was almost refreshing. "About a week or two," he remembered. "The first few days are a bit blurry, though; they had me on a lot of pain medicine."

"Okay," she noted, writing his response down. "I'd like you to give it another week, if you can. Keep taking your meds as prescribed, do anything that's helped you sleep through the night in the past—reading, tea, a couple nights of sleeping pills, etc. It might be that, even though you've already gone to the dance at your new school, the stress of the situation is finally hitting home for you. If that's the case, this is just your mind's way of coping with the sudden shock, and they'll fade on their own. If not, we'll see what we can do about adjusting your medication; see if we can't find you some relief. All right?"

Blaine didn't like that idea, but he nodded anyway.

Then shook his head. "Isn't there anything else we can do?" he asked, trying not to whine or sound desperate. "I'm so tired, and I don't want to keep going like this for another week."

Rather than frown at him, like Blaine half-expected her to, Dr. Ramirez looked delighted. "That was quite a risk you just took, openly disagreeing with me in order to ask for what you want," she commented. "That's excellent progress, Blaine."

Blaine colored under her praise, and Dr. Ramirez looked at her notes. "Here's what I'm going to do," she told him, taking a smaller notepad off of her desk and quickly scribbling something on it. "I'm going to leave a prescription for you in the office, with a slight adjustment to your dosage. If you're still having nightmares by Monday morning, call the office and tell them which pharmacy you go to, and someone will call it in for you. Okay?"

This time, Blaine smiled as he nodded. "Okay," he agreed, relieved to have a more concrete plan.

Dr. Ramirez nodded back. "Now, next week," she segued, glancing at the clock. "Carmel doesn't have classes, am I right?"

"It's our break, but I'll still be here," Blaine clarified. "And my Grandma's picking me up from Group, so that she can meet you."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is this the Grandma in Canada?" she asked, and smiled when Blaine nodded. "Well, in that case," she replied, "I'll make sure to save a few extra minutes for her. I know of at least two people we'll be missing next week, so I don't think she'll have to compete for my undivided attention."

"I told her that you might not be able to tell her much," Blaine warned. "So feel free to leave out the time that I cried on your throw pillow when she asks how I'm doing."

Dr. Ramirez nodded, fighting a smile. "Patient confidentiality would certainly preclude me from sharing that information with anyone," she agreed. "Also, I never cared for that particular pillow."

"Good. Thank you."

"Of course."

* * *

><p>When Blaine woke up on Friday morning—at the normal time, for once, with the vague sense that his dreams had been unpleasant, but nothing worse—the rain was coming down in dense, heavy sheets. The drive to school was harrowing, and Blaine barely made it to 1st period on time, despite having left almost twenty minutes earlier than usual.<p>

_I don't think the zoo is a good idea today_, he wrote to Kurt during History (it seemed that showing movies during class on the final day before a break wasn't just a holiday thing). _Can we go somewhere with a roof?_

_You're probably right,_ Kurt wrote back, a frowny face drawn in the corner of the note. _If it's all right, can we stop at the bookstore after rehearsal? We can go out to dinner after that, or go back to my house if you're still not feeling well._

Blaine was feeling a lot more hopeful, now that he had talked to Dr. Ramirez and slept through an entire night, but that didn't mean he didn't want to spend time alone with Kurt. _That sounds good_, he agreed; _your house, please :) _

Blaine's mood continued to improve as the day went on. Spirits were high in all of his classes due to the upcoming week off—it seemed like _everyone_ was going skiing over the break but him, although Mary surprised him by telling him all about the trip to Prague that she and her family had planned. Desserts in the cafeteria were free, since a giant shipment of frozen goods was scheduled to arrive the following Friday, and Blaine happily snarfed down two fudge-covered peanut butter bars, carefully wrapping a third to share with Kurt later.

Even rehearsal that day ended on a positive note—after spending the first half of practice working on Kurt's solo, Shelby only had them run through every piece once, to "help solidify the footwork that you'll _all be practicing no matter what city you're in or how much fun you're having_, understood? Don't make me regret not sequestering you for the week". It had been incredible, after weeks and months of working on little mistakes or single numbers, to pull everything together and see how much they had actually accomplished since November.

Plus, Giselle had slid a copy of her song into his bag at the beginning of rehearsal, and it turned out that they had similar tastes in music. Or, at least, that they both liked The Hush Sound. Which was a reasonable start.

The rain had slowed, but not stopped, by the time they were released from rehearsal—with warnings not to break any bones, or get any tattoos and/or piercings that they didn't want forcibly removed by the wardrobe department—and the drive to the mall was a lot less perilous than Blaine's earlier trip to Carmel had been.

Kurt, who was a weirdly careful driver, had firmly shut down the idea of putting each other on speakerphone whenever they were driving somewhere in their separate cars. Instead, he had borrowed Blaine's iPod overnight once, shyly returning it the next day with a new playlist entitled 'Kurt and Blaine's Car Music'.

"I know it's not the same as being able to talk," he'd explained apologetically, turning a delicate shade of pink as Blaine had scrolled through the songs, "but at least we can listen to music together." It wasn't the same, but it was sweet and thoughtful and such a _Kurt _thing to do that Blaine couldn't bring himself to care.

It was Blaine's turn to pick which song they started on—with twenty-nine tracks, they had agreed on the need to mix it up a little—and the number of traffic lights between Carmel and the mall meant that the playlist had just cycled back to the first song as he was pulling into the parking lot:

"_Well too much silence can be misleading,_

_You're drifting, I can hear it in the way that you're breathing…"_

Kurt kept a golf umbrella in the backseat of his car ("It always seems to be raining whenever someone I know gets a flat tire," he'd mentioned with a sigh when Blaine had commented on it), and he met Blaine at his car door with it to escort him across the parking lot.

"Do you know," he said thoughtfully, once they were inside, "I think this is the first time we've been back to the bookstore since we cried all over the café. I mean, _I've _been back on my own, but it was six in the morning on Black Friday, so I'm pretty sure I managed to fly under the radar."

"Just try not to think of anything sad," Blaine quipped. "I think enough time has gone by since last fall, but we probably shouldn't take any chances."

The trip to the bookstore passed without incident. Blaine pretended to be affronted when Kurt bought a Shakespeare-to-English translation of _Macbeth_, but accepted Kurt's argument that he had every intention of reading the play itself; the book was just to help with essays and assignments.

"I don't want to accidently base my entire thesis on a quote if it doesn't mean what I think it means," Kurt reasoned. "This isn't 'cheating', so much as it's 'preventing academic catastrophe of unrecoverable proportions'."

"I get it," Blaine answered with a crafty smile. "Check thyself before ye wreck thyself."

Kurt stared at him, clearly mortified. "Oh my God," he lamented, wide-eyed. "You giant dork."

The giant dork convinced Kurt to pick up takeout containers of soup from the health foods café before they left the mall. He spent the whole drive to Kurt's house reaching over at every red light, making sure that the flimsy tupperware was still upright, and not dripping all over the place. Kurt didn't ride in his car too often, but Blaine could only imagine his face if he found chicken noodle soup stains all over the passenger seat: he'd probably insist on shampooing everything right on the spot.

It wasn't quite as good as holding Kurt's hand, but Blaine would take what he could get.

* * *

><p>Back at Kurt's house, Blaine watched Kurt dance slowly in place while he worked with appreciation. "How many people are you allowed to sing backup for at Evaluations?" he asked Kurt, carefully slicing bread at the table while Kurt warmed their soup on the stove. "Is there a limit?"<p>

Kurt shook his head, adjusting the heat under the pot slightly. "There isn't a _limit,_ per se, but it does vary," he explained, staring critically at Blaine's uneven slices without commenting. Blaine, slightly ashamed of his domestic failure, tried to cut the next piece more neatly.

"Most people won't commit to helping more than two, _maybe_ three people during competition season—it just gets to be too much work," Kurt continued. He looked up from Blaine's handiwork with a frown. "Why, have too many people been asking you to sing with them?" he wanted to know. "Because they should really know better than to take advantage of you like that; it'll hurt them just as much as it'll hurt you, in the end."

"No, that's not it," Blaine assured him, slightly gratified at Kurt's mild indignation on his behalf. "It's just…"

He trailed off. Kurt looked at him inquisitively.

_Ask for what you want. _Blaine took a deep breath. "I want to sing with you," he stated decisively.

"Not just for me, I mean," he clarified, when Kurt looked like he was going to say something. "I want you to pick me as your partner for Evaluations. I know what you said the other day, about needing to pick the best song for you, but there are _so many songs _that would work for our voices, and I want to help you. Can't you just…pick the best song for your voice that I could sing with you?"

Kurt looked at him helplessly, clearly at a loss. "Blaine, I…" he started, before shaking his head slowly.

"I know you want to help," he said pleadingly to Blaine, and Blaine's stomach began churning. "And I appreciate that, I do. But if there's a song that would work better with Sasha, or Mike, or somebody else, the best thing you can do to help me is to support my decision, and be a critical ear when I need one."

Even if he had half-expected it after Wednesday, the rejection still stung as much as it had the first time. Probably even more so, Blaine realized, because now Kurt _knew_ what he wanted, and was still saying no. "I don't want to criticize you," he replied stubbornly, "I hate making you feel bad like that; I know you're lying when you say it doesn't hurt your feelings."

Kurt turned away from him, raking his nails through his hair and lacing both hands behind his head. Blaine felt a flash of anger at the gesture, an obvious sign that Kurt wasn't going to listen to whatever he had to say.

"You don't understand," Kurt sighed, sounding tired. "I—"

"No," Blaine interrupted fiercely, surprising himself with the irritation in his voice, "I _don't _understand. Please explain to me why being the best is _so consumingly important _to you, because I really don't get it, Kurt. I mean, do you even _enjoy_ singing? Do you even like _any _of this?"

All of the color drained out of Kurt's face, and Blaine knew instantly that he had gone too far.

The anger, which had felt natural and justified when he had been snarling at Kurt, deflated like a punctured balloon. Instead, Blaine was left feeling shame and regret at his sudden outburst. And even worse was the expression on Kurt's face as Kurt looked at him, frozen in shock by Blaine's explosion.

As if Blaine had slapped him.

"That's—that's not what I meant," Blaine said quietly, tone defeated as he stared at the floor, unable to look up at Kurt. "All I—you just work _so hard, _Kurt, until you're sick, even, and I just…"

He struggled, trying to come up with a way to take back the look of hurt and betrayal he'd seen on Kurt's face; the look he knew he had put there. "I just worry that it's not making you happy, sometimes," he finished lamely.

He waited, afraid to say anything else, lest he make the situation even worse.

When Kurt spoke again, it was in a quiet, controlled voice that somehow made Blaine feel even worse. "I love singing," he said tonelessly. "I work hard because that's how some of us get places, Blaine."

Blaine chanced a glance up at him, and shuddered slightly—Kurt's jolted expression had become a stoic mask, and it was incredibly unsettling to see something so apathetic on his usually beautifully expressive face.

"This is the price I have to pay if I want to get into the best programs, get the best start possible, so that I can keep singing for the rest of my life," Kurt continued, ignoring Blaine's remorse.

His voice had taken on a steely quality, laced with the worst thing Blaine thought he'd never hear coming from Kurt, especially directed at him: contempt. "Sorry if I'm not relaxed enough about my future for you," he finished, glaring slightly.

Blaine's eyes were filled with tears of shame. "Kurt," he began, brokenly.

"I need a minute," Kurt declared flatly, cutting off any explanations or apologies Blaine might have offered. Instead, Blaine was forced to watch as Kurt exhaled slowly, as if trying to reign in the emotions threatening to shatter his steely mask, then headed for the door.

Before exiting the kitchen, Kurt paused. "Turn off the burner if that starts to bubble, please," he said calmly, indicating the pot of soup that was still heating on the stove with a nod of his head. "I don't want the chicken to dry out."

And with that, Blaine was left alone in the kitchen.

* * *

><p>For several impossibly long moments, Blaine didn't move at all. He had screwed up so badly, even worse than when he had wounded Kurt's feelings the last time he was over. What he had said to Kurt, insinuating that he was being selfish and questioning his obvious love of music, was probably one of the most targeted, hurtful things he could have said to someone like Kurt, who spent so much time trying to be everything to everyone: a good son, a great student; a friend, performer, boyfriend…<p>

Unless Blaine had said something awful about Kurt's mother, he realized, he probably couldn't have chosen a more spiteful, cutting way to upset Kurt if he had sat down and planned it. And the expression on Kurt's face, not only when Blaine had first opened his stupid mouth, but when he had shut down; responding to Blaine's attack as if he were addressing a total stranger whom he didn't particularly care for…

A loud noise startled Blaine, making him flinch sharply before he identified the sound as Kurt's phone, buzzing on the counter. Feeling shaky and suddenly unsteady on his feet, Blaine sat down at the kitchen table, staring morosely at his crookedly-cut slices of bread and wondering what he was supposed to do—go after Kurt, wait in the kitchen and give him his space, go home and—

Kurt's phone buzzed again, rattling in its place by the sink.

When it went off a third time a minute later, Blaine pushed himself back upright and crossed the room, grabbing the phone and turning off the stove on his way out of the kitchen.

* * *

><p>Kurt didn't look up from his spot on the couch when Blaine crept into the living room. His face was still too pale, but for a pinkish tinge around his lips and eyes that betrayed the fact that he'd probably been crying. His posture was slumped, a sharp contrast to his usual grace, and Blaine was torn between wanting to throw his arms around Kurt in apology and the intense desire to run from the room.<p>

Run, like the coward he was. He bit the inside of his cheek sharply.

"Your phone's been ringing," he said quietly instead, setting the device on the coffee table and gingerly sitting down next to Kurt, leaving several inches between them in case Kurt didn't want him there.

When Kurt didn't protest, Blaine took a deep breath. "I really didn't mean what I said," he promised pleadingly, watching Kurt's expression carefully. "I'm so sorry."

Kurt closed his eyes briefly, and Blaine wondered for a moment if that was the only acknowledgement he was going to receive that Kurt had even noticed him in the room.

After a few seconds, however, Kurt opened his eyes. "You struck a nerve," he said softly, his previous hostility gone. "I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

He turned slightly, studying Blaine. "Do you know how rare it is to have two countertenors in a single high school?" he asked Blaine, who shook his head—he'd honestly never thought about it before.

Kurt gave a slight nod, apparently not expecting Blaine to answer any differently. "It's not an accident that Carmel has two, when most choirs don't have any," he shared. "Andy's a year older than we are, and he was recruited from St. Francis Academy in Colorado as a freshman—the number two school in the country for show choir that year. And then I showed up at auditions in September, and do you know what Shelby said to me?"

Blaine shook his head again, and Kurt smiled painfully. "She said that if I was any less talented, she would have steered me toward dance or drama club, because she already had one of me." He rolled his eyes, but there was nothing humorous in his expression. "She didn't _need _a second countertenor, you understand," he explained to Blaine, who really hadn't understood. "But she couldn't take the chance that another director would get his hands on me, either. Countertenors are rare; we're like the fabulously sparkly butterflies of the vocal world—you don't come across us every week. But what that really means is that, outside of opera, parts for us are rare, too. My range is enviable, yes, but I can't compete against girls on a professional level, and I can't always compete against boys."

He frowned at Blaine. "I'm never going to look like a leading man," he said regretfully, "and I have an entire soapbox on that topic that I really don't want to get into right now. But I have to be able to be one of the best at what _I _do, because the odds just aren't in my favor."

The house phone rang in the background. Kurt ignored it. "And how am I supposed to do that?" he continued, before Blaine could step in, "when I'm not even the best singer in my _high school_? The world is only going to get bigger and more competitive, and I'm only sixteen, Blaine. I'm…"

By now, tears were streaming down Kurt's face as he struggled to continue, and Blaine couldn't hold back any longer, whether his embrace was wanted or not. Reaching out, he quickly gathered Kurt into his arms, pulling him close and stroking his back as he began to cry in earnest.

"Shhh, it's okay. You're okay," he murmured softly, feeling Kurt shuddering underneath him as he struggled to catch his breath. He pressed his lips to Kurt's hair, gently repeating soothing phrases.

He'd seen Kurt cry before, a couple of times, but he'd never actually seen Kurt fall apart until that moment. And there was a difference: seeing Kurt cry was awful, but _this_ was a whole new level of terrifying, and Blaine clutched Kurt tighter, not knowing what he could do to help and feeling like the worst person in the world for being the one to set him off like that and he didn't know what he was supposed to do, _why didn't he know what he was supposed to do…_

When Kurt's breathing had evened out and Blaine couldn't feel any more fresh tears soaking his shirt, he reached up, gently stroking Kurt's cheek and smoothing away the tearstains wherever he could. "I'm sorry I was such a jerk before," he said quietly, voice barely louder than a whisper. "I didn't know how hard this was for you."

He swallowed. "I'll do whatever you want me to, okay?" he promised. "Whatever you need."

Kurt's breathing hitched slightly—Blaine could feel the faint movement where Kurt's body was draped across his own—and he lifted his head from Blaine's chest, exposing his still-glittering eyes. "Blaine," he began, "I—"

Whatever Kurt was going to say was interrupted when the phone on the coffee table began buzzing, yet again. "Is it the same person calling the house and your phone?" Blaine asked, torn between sheer annoyance at the stupid person who clearly couldn't take a hint and worry that maybe it was an emergency that he was keeping Kurt from.

Kurt pulled out of Blaine's hold, stretching forward until he could reach his phone on the table and tilt the screen toward him. "Oh, for—" he muttered, annoyed.

He rolled back onto the couch with a sigh. "Let me just answer this, or he'll be calling all night," he groaned, before jabbing a button and putting the phone to his ear. "What?" he asked sharply, settling back into Blaine's arms, his back against Blaine's chest. Grateful that Kurt's hostility wasn't directed at him anymore, Blaine wrapped his arm around Kurt's waist, using his other hand to gently stroke Kurt's disheveled hair back into place.

"Most people leave a message when that happens," Kurt was saying to whoever was on the other end. "No, I haven't been _crying_. How would you know, you're not even here? Maybe I just had dairy."

Blaine felt Kurt's muscles begin to tense, and he rain a soothing hand over Kurt's shoulder. "Yes, he is," Kurt continued, relaxing somewhat under Blaine's ministrations. "No. Because we're busy, that's why."

Another pause. "Fine." Kurt turned his head slightly. "Jesse says hi," he said dryly, before resting his head back down against Blaine's collarbone. "Blaine says 'please stop calling, you needy, needy human being'. I thought you and Rachel were going to that concert in Dayton tonight, anyway; why aren't you with her?"

Blaine couldn't hear much more than the murmur of Jesse's voice over the phone, but gathered from the Kurt's sympathetic moan that the answer was not pleasant. "Jesse, I'm sorry. What did she say to you when you saw it?"

As Kurt continued to console Jesse over whatever had happened between him and Rachel, Blaine nestled further into the couch cushions, continuing to run his fingers through Kurt's hair. He allowed the conversation to wash over him, losing himself instead in the scent of Kurt's cologne, the warmth of Kurt's body against his own.

A nasty, spiteful voice in his head told him to enjoy it while it lasted. Blaine ignored it, clinging tighter.

* * *

><p>Blaine's teachers had assigned him six hours and thirty-seven minutes worth of homework to do over the break. Blaine knew that because, after an uninspired breakfast of lukewarm oatmeal on Saturday morning, he spent nearly the entire day shut up in his room, working on chapter after problem set after worksheet, until all of his assignments were complete.<p>

His mother, not wanting to disturb him while he was working, only interrupted him twice: once to bring him a sandwich and a glass of soda, and later on to let him know that she and Blaine's dad were leaving to pick up Grandma at the airport (nearly an hour away) and would be back around 6:30. Blaine briefly considered going with them, if only so he could see Grandma that much sooner, but changed his mind when he realized that going along would be problematic in one of two ways: either he'd have to make awkward small talk with his parents, who were still treating him like glass, even after Dr. Ramirez's pronouncement that he was probably fine, or he'd be left alone in the backseat, with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.

And, as they often were lately, those thoughts were largely centered around Kurt.

Jesse had apparently gotten into an extremely ego-damaging fight with Rachel and, while Blaine didn't know the details, he did know that it had taken a _long_ time for Kurt to calm him down. He couldn't blame either of them—Kurt was just trying to be a good friend, and after his own emotionally crippling showdown with Kurt in the kitchen, he could understand Jesse's need for comfort and reassurances—but the drawn-out conversation had drained any energy Kurt had still possessed after their brief fight, and Blaine had caved when Kurt had looked at him with tired eyes and requested that they put off any talks that they needed to have until later.

When Blaine finally had to leave in order to avoid missing his curfew, Kurt was still tucked into his arms.

Blaine had gone back and forth all day on whether or not he should call Kurt in order to talk about the night before. On the one hand, Kurt knew he was sorry, and probably would have broken up with him on the spot if he was planning on doing it at all. And Blaine hated the discomfiting feeling that the two of them weren't okay, even if the actual yelling had been completely one-sided and was long over. Things would just be _better_ if the two of them could talk it out and move on.

On the other hand, however, he knew that he had badly hurt Kurt's feelings with what he had said, and Kurt's disdainful stoicism had scared him just as much. That didn't seem like something that he should try to resolve over voice mail, which is what he would have to do, since Kurt was working in the garage all day.

As it turned out, dealing with other people was an emotional messy ordeal. Hence, homework.

The days were starting to get longer again, and the late afternoon light was casting giant shadows on the street outside Blaine's window when Blaine finally finished his last math problem, around quarter to five. The temperature was far milder than Ohio had any right to expect in February as well, if the jacketless little boys playing with a soccer ball down the road could be trusted.

Blaine paused, looking at his phone; Kurt's shift at the garage was nearly over.

* * *

><p>Five minutes later, Blaine was lacing up his sneakers on the front porch, his house key tucked into the zippered mesh pocket of his shorts. His shoes were much cleaner than the pairs he'd gone through in middle school, when he used to play soccer and run cross country. He'd dropped down from school teams to intramural sports during freshman year, when the practices began conflicting with drama rehearsals, and had stopped playing altogether when school began conflicting with him. Still, Blaine had used his current pair of sneakers in gym class often enough that they were broken in, and he barely noticed them once he stumbled down the porch steps and began jogging slowly down the street.<p>

It was a familiar route, and yet different—Blaine hadn't run through his neighborhood in several months, and it was strange to see the little changes: houses that were painted different colors; a newer, sturdier mailbox where a broken one used to be; the stubborn banks of snow that glistened, but refused to melt, on nearly every lawn.

It was the same with his own body—Blaine had always been in relatively decent shape, if on the smaller end of guys his age as far as height and muscles were concerned. After months of not running or playing sports regularly, though, he had expected to be less fit than he used to be. It was almost shocking when, rather than having to slow down and catch his breath, or stop to stretch out any muscle cramps, his body responded to the challenge: his pace was clipped and even, his breathing remained deep and steady. Even his heartbeat was strong and healthy in his chest, not rising too quickly or beating erratically, the way it had been so prone to doing over the past year.

He was hardly Superman, but his body was not what it had been back in September when he had gotten hurt, or even what it had been before that. Somewhere along the line, the scarred, broken mental image of himself that Blaine had carried in his head for so long had become inaccurate: his scars were fading, and his body had begun to heal and grow, made stronger and tougher by time and distance and hours upon hours of dance.

Maybe he wasn't whole, maybe he was still a little fractured on the inside. But he wasn't broken anymore.

* * *

><p>Night had fallen and the lights were on in Blaine's house when he finally made it home, sore and tired from his excursion. He'd forgotten to take off his watch, and a quick glance at it as he opened the door told him that it was 6:34, and that his parents couldn't have beaten him home by long.<p>

"Grandma?" he called loudly, pulling off his shoes and socks before padding barefoot down the hall, following the sound of voices to the kitchen.

Grandma was sitting at the table with Blaine's mother, turned slightly in her chair in order to include Blaine's dad, who was making tea, in the conversation. Her eyes lit up when she saw Blaine enter the room. "Oh, Sweetheart, you're home!" she exclaimed happily, using both hands to push herself to her feet. "Let me take a look at you," she demanded, reaching for Blaine.

Blaine smiled at her, but leaned in to kiss her cheek instead of walking into her open arms. "I'm so sweaty from running, Grandma," he told her, taking her hands and squeezing them lightly. "I'm too gross to hug until I take a shower."

Grandma looked delighted by the news. "You're running again," she affirmed gladly, lifting one of her hands to Blaine's cheek and patting it affectionately. "Oh, Sweetheart, I'm so glad to hear it." She leaned in conspiratorially. "You know," she reminded him, "just a couple more years, and you'll be old enough to run the marathon."

Blaine rolled his eyes fondly at the familiar entreaty—Grandma had been trying to persuade him to run the Toronto Marathon ever since the Naked Lake Running Affair, over eight years ago. "I'll run it if you come with me, Grandma," he replied, his expected response, and she ruffled his hair.

"Oh, not me; I'll be taking the bus all over town so that I can wave at you," she promised, easing herself back into her chair. Blaine's dad set a cup of tea on the table in front of her, and she smiled and thanked him before turning back to Blaine. "Tell me all about school while you stretch," she requested, leaning forward slightly and reaching for the sugar bowl. Blaine slid it across the table toward her before sitting down on the kitchen floor.

Before he could answer her, however, his mother made a concerned noise. "Blaine, do you have time to do that and take a shower?" she asked nervously. "We have to leave in about fifteen minutes if we're going to make our dinner reservations on time."

Blaine frowned. "Can I have twenty?" he asked, eyeing the clock on the stove. "Fifteen minutes might not be quite enough."

His mom frowned back. "Honey, why didn't you come back earlier?" she asked, sounding tired. "You knew when Grandma was coming, and that we were going out to dinner."

"You didn't tell me I had to be ready to go at a certain time," Blaine pointed out, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

His mother looked steadily back at him. "You didn't tell me you were going anywhere," she responded, clearly doing the same thing. "You've been in your room all day; I'd have made a point to tell you, if I knew you were going out."

It was a reasonable explanation, but Blaine was still irritated that she had managed to twist the situation into something that was his fault.

Luckily, Grandma stepped in before he could say something that he might have regretted later. "Why don't you and James go ahead to the restaurant, dear, and Blaine and I can follow in his car when he gets out of the shower?" she suggested to Blaine's mother. "I'm sure I'll need to stop at the drugstore on the way home, anyway, and it'll give me a chance to ask him all the embarrassing Grandma questions I've been saving up."

Blaine's mom didn't look completely thrilled by the idea, but agreed to it anyway, making sure that Blaine remembered exactly where the restaurant was. "Two lights past the plaza with the Mexican cantina, and across from the bowling alley," he recited, when she pressed him for confirmation. "I drove us home last month when we went for your birthday, remember? I won't get lost."

* * *

><p>While his parents were still in the house, Grandma asked him a few generic questions about school and what he wanted to do while she was visiting, then shooed him upstairs to get cleaned up. Once they were in his car, however, it was a different story.<p>

"How's that sweet young man of yours?" she asked, before Blaine had even started the car. "Am I going to be meeting him this week?"

Blaine bit his lip, turning the keys in the ignition and pulling out of the driveway. "Kurt's a little stressed out right now," he said cryptically, not especially prepared to explain the current situation. "But I know he wants to meet you in person. I'll have to talk to him and see what days he's working in his dad's garage; maybe he can have lunch with us sometime."

If Grandma noticed the slight edge to his voice—and even though he had tried to hide it, he was sure she probably had—she didn't say anything directly about it. "Well, whenever he has the time, of course," she agreed. "I'd love to hear the two of you sing together, but I know you're both so busy, so I can wait if I need to."

She had unknowingly struck a raw, exposed nerve, and Blaine didn't trust himself to answer.

"What are his plans for the summer?" Grandma continued blithely, looking out the window at the strip malls as they drove past. "Do you think he'd like to come up to Toronto for a visit? I know your dad said that you might be coming for a few extra weeks this year, and that's an awfully long time to go without seeing each other."

Blaine gripped the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles turned white. "Grandma…" he started, unsure of what he wanted to say. _That's incredibly generous and I love you, but Kurt and I might not last until summer? Or he might follow his dreams all the way to the middle of nowhere and leave me behind all summer without a second glance? Also, my parents haven't even done me the courtesy of _telling _me that they're planning on shipping me out of the country so that they don't have to deal with me?_

He settled for the latter: it didn't require much backstory to explain, since Grandma already knew his parents as well as he did, and the circumstances had been eating at him for weeks. "My parents haven't said anything to me about this summer yet," he told her darkly.

He sighed. "And I love visiting you," he promised, "and I'm excited to go, but…"

He could feel Grandma looking at him. "But you're a little angry with them right now for making arrangements without asking you?" she suggested knowingly.

Blaine let out a huge breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "You could say that," he agreed, laughing humorlessly. "I heard them talking about 'what they were going to do with me' _weeks_ ago, and they still haven't bothered to ask me what _I'd _like to do. Because I couldn't possibly have made any plans, right?"

He knew his anger was starting to show, and that his voice was getting a little too loud for the car, but it was so hard to care—letting out all of his frustration felt _so good_, and it was such a relief to have Grandma there, the one person in his life who had always been there to listen to him no matter what, that the words simply poured out of him:

"They're always asking questions," he ranted, signaling his upcoming right turn with a little more force than necessary, but carefully controlling his actual driving—the last thing he needed was to get into an accident. "If I've eaten, if I've slept, have I been taking my medication, did I do my homework—they're _always_ asking me about every little mundane detail, like knowing what I had for breakfast this morning means that we're this tightknit family."

He scoffed. "They don't know Kurt's my boyfriend," he pointed out angrily. "They don't know that I went to my school dance, and that it was terrifying but that I'm so glad I did it. They don't know how rehearsals are going, or who I eat lunch with at school, or even what music I'm listening to. They don't know how I feel or what I'm thinking, or anything but what they want to know. And it's all _so stupid._"

The echoing of his voice rang sharply in his ear, his harsh breathing the only other sound in the car besides the crunching of his tires over the poorly-paved street outside.

Grandma was quiet for a few minutes, and Blaine couldn't bring himself to look over at her, afraid of what he might see. Now that he had finished seething, reality was starting to creep back in, and he was painfully aware of the slight tantrum he had just thrown—something that was starting to become embarrassingly frequent, if was being honest with himself.

And he hated that the people that he wanted to think the best of him, like Grandma and Kurt, were the ones who ended up seeing him at his most childish and petty.

After the long silence, however, Blaine felt Grandma's cool hand brush over his right arm. "Did your mother ever tell you that she was offered a promotion at work?" she said casually, her tone as light and breezy as if she had been asking about the weather.

Blaine shook his head. "No," he said cautiously, "I didn't. When?"

"Back in October," Grandma answered, and Blaine could see her watching him out of the corner of his eye. "She was one of…oh, I'm sure I can't remember, maybe ten people being considered for the position? It was a very exciting offer for her, I remember that much."

Blaine switched lanes, preparing to make a left turn. "I don't remember any of that," he admitted, confused. He knew he'd been on a lot of pain medication the first week after the dance, and that some of his memories were confused, but he didn't think he'd forgotten anything as big as his mother switching jobs.

"She might not have mentioned it to you, Sweetheart," Grandma suggested, leaning forward slightly in her seat to read the time on the clock. "She didn't end up taking the job."

They were stopped at a red light, and Blaine took the opportunity to stare at Grandma, even more lost than before. "Why wouldn't she take it, if it was such a good offer?" he wanted to know. "That doesn't make any sense."

Grandma smiled sadly at him. "Well, as I recall, the position would have involved a lot more travelling than she does now," she explained, reaching back over again to squeeze his arm. "If you had gone to that all-boys school and lived there during the week, that would have been one thing, but then you picked your new school. I think she wanted to make sure that someone was home for you whenever you needed it, and that wouldn't have been possible if she'd accepted the promotion.

"It's a green light, Sweetheart," she added, when Blaine continued to stare.

Blaine quickly looked back at the road and made the turn, chewing on his bottom lip as he drove. "That's…nobody ever told me that," he mumbled, his anger temporarily broken.

_Why _had nobody ever mentioned that to him?

Grandma smiled at him, as if she could read his mind. "You were pretty out of it at the time," she said soothingly, "and I think your mom and dad wanted you to make your own decision about school, without feeling like you had to shoulder their burden as well. They were just trying to do what they thought was right for you. They still are, even if it feels like they get everything wrong sometimes."

She opened her purse. "Do you want a piece of gum, Sweetheart?" she asked, sorting through the overstuffed bag. "I have the wintergreen kind that you like."

Blaine couldn't help but smile as he shook his head. "No thanks, Grandma," he said, watching her pull a clump of tissues and her glasses case out of her purse in search of the gum. "After dinner, maybe?"

"Oh, of course," Grandma agreed, as if his decision were the most obvious thing in the world. "I'll save you a piece."

She found the gum, and the familiar, pleasant smell of mint filled the car. "I have to tell you, darling, it's actually a bit of a relief to see you get angry," she added casually, closing her purse and settling back into her seat as Blaine stopped at yet another red light. "I don't know how much you remember about the week you were released from the hospital—"

"Not much," Blaine told her truthfully.

Grandma closed her eyes. "Well," she continued, "I'd gotten on a plane almost as soon as your dad called to tell me what had happened, so I got to see you when you came out of surgery. And we knew that they had you on all sorts of medicines and such for the few days you were in there, so we expected you to be a little out of it, like I said. But when they sent you home…"

She paused for a moment, and Blaine found himself tensing up, waiting for her to finish her thought—nobody had ever told him about the aftermath of The Incident before.

Grandma shook her head slowly. "It was so hard for us to see you like that, Sweetheart," she told him seriously. "You were just so empty and lifeless, and we didn't know if it was the drugs or some sort of stress response, but it was like my little boy wasn't even in there. Like your body was just moving around on its own, without your mind or your spirit attached."

She shook her head again, faster this time. "You have no idea what a relief it was, when I talked to you on the phone at Thanksgiving, and you were starting to sound like you again," she confided. "And seeing you at Christmas—of course you weren't exactly the same as you were before, and you wouldn't have been anyway, but I was so thankful to see you looking happier again."

She looked over at him, and Blaine had to look away when he saw that her eyes were bright with unshed tears—if she started to cry, there was no way he was going to be able to drive.

"I know you still have a lot of feelings to work through, Sweetheart," Grandma added, shifting a little in her seat but otherwise sounding serenely normal. "And not all of those feelings are going to be pleasant. But you can do all the yelling you need to do, as long as you remember that the people who love you are just doing their best to be there for you—even if we're not perfect. All right?"

Despite his firm determination not to cry, Blaine felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. "I think you're perfect, Grandma," he said loyally, earning a laugh from her.

"Oh, nobody is," she told him, looking at the window again. "Sweetheart, where is this restaurant that your father wanted to go to? Are we still in Ohio?"

It was nearly ten o'clock when Blaine trudged up the stairs to his room that night, after having taken Grandma to the drugstore. Whether it was going for a run, or the conversation with Grandma, or even all of the driving he'd done that day, he was more tired than usual, and had begged off when his dad offered to make coffee for everyone and his mother had pulled out a store-bought cake.

He was so tired, in fact, that he didn't notice his cell phone blinking on his desk until after he'd finished getting ready for bed.

Quickly grabbing it and tapping a few buttons, Blaine pulled up the list of missed calls to see that Kurt had called him about half an hour ago, when he had still been out. Turning off the lamp on his nightstand, Blaine lay back on his bed, opening his voicemail and holding the phone to his ear.

Listening to the automated voice tell him that he had one new message, his stomach coiled in anticipation. Finally, the message began:

"_Hi, Blaine, it's Kurt. Obviously. Sorry, I figured you were probably still out with your Grandma when you didn't answer, but I'm not feeling particularly eloquent right now."_

Blaine had to smile—only Kurt Hummel would use the word 'eloquent' when claiming inarticulacy.

"_Anyway, I…I'm sorry, I'd so much rather do this in person, but I hate the way we left things last night, and I didn't want to wait until after work tomorrow to see you. I'm so sorry, Blaine. We both said some things that we shouldn't have said, but…you were just telling me what you thought was the truth, and I shouldn't have gotten so defensive and awful about it. I'm…_ashamed _of myself for reacting like that, and I'm…just, sorry."_

The tears Blaine had been holding back all night slid slowly down his cheekbones. The path they took, different than usual since he was lying down, felt strange to him. Strange, but not entirely unpleasant.

"_I don't know if your phone is going to cut me off, but…I thought you'd want to know: I picked a song for Evaluations. And I want you to sing it with me, if you still want to. It's okay if you don't, but…actually, it's not okay if you don't, I'll take it personally. Anyway, I know you know it already, but…here it goes."_

Kurt was right—as he began to sing, his voice beautiful and stunning even as it quavered with emotion, Blaine recognized his song choice immediately:

"_Here comes the sun,_

_Here comes the sun, and I say,_

_it's all right…" _

The past week had been an emotional rollercoaster for Blaine, and Kurt had been no small part of that. But as he lost himself in the sound of Kurt's voice, singing along and harmonizing a little, even, Blaine knew that it didn't matter.

He was in love with Kurt, even if he was too afraid to say it out loud yet.

"_Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting,_

_Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear,_

_Here comes the sun,_

_Here comes the sun…"_

"And I said," Blaine sang along with Kurt softly, knowing that the other boy couldn't hear him.

"It's all right."


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20/30-ish. Yay, multiples of ten.

This took forever, and I'm sorry to be a few days late in posting—when the Chapter 20 I was originally writing turned out to be ridiculously terrible, I had to scrap the entire thing and start over. I like it much better (and I hope you do too!) ALSO: review responses are coming, and I'm sorry they're so late. Sometime between when FF decided to peace out and lock down and tonight, I whacked my wrist on the dance floor (I know) and it's wrapped up for a couple of days, making typing slower than slow. Whoops.

* * *

><p>Whether or not Rachel Berry skyrocketed to fame immediately following graduation, the way she seemed convinced that she would, she would certainly go down in history for one thing, at least:<p>

"This may be the first time I've ever seen you exhibit real, human emotion," Kurt commented, fascinated. "I don't want to be rude, I know you're hurt, but I can't help but feel as though I should be videotaping this to prove to future generations that you're not a cyborg."

Jesse rolled his eyes and threw a cupcake wrapper—he'd shown up on Kurt's porch at 9:00am, demanding baked goods filled with milk and eggs—at Kurt's head. Fortunately for Kurt, his aim was off; it narrowly grazed Kurt's ear, landing between them on the couch. Jesse sighed forlornly. "I just don't understand it," he echoed for the hundredth time, "it's not as if anyone outside the Glee club was even going to _see _the video. I have no idea what she was trying to prove."

Kurt shrugged, picking up the paper wrapper and dropping it onto the plate with the others—Jesse had just started his fifth cupcake. "Don't look at me," he replied lightly, leaning back on the couch. "I still don't understand what a 'Glist' is supposed to be."

"That's because it has nothing to do with me, and is therefore irrelevant," Jesse retorted with another sigh, seemingly bored with the question.

Which was entirely possible, seeing as Kurt had asked him twice, and Jesse wasn't known for his patience even on the best of days. He shrugged moodily. "I suppose all of this pining and angst will end up making a riveting chapter in my first autobiography," he acknowledged seriously. "Still, I was hoping to have moved past the situational melancholia by now."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Jesse, it's been less than a day since you broke up," he pointed out. "I think the disintegration of a relationship—even one founded on lies and overblown egos—is worth at least a few days' worth of emotional upheaval."

Jesse looked up from his cupcake, blinking in surprise. "Who said anything about me breaking up with her?" he wanted to know.

Kurt frowned, confused. "Aren't you?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "I thought you said—"

"A strong relationship should be able to overcome difficult times, Kurt," Jesse interrupted with a patronizing smile. "'Love means never having to say you're sorry', you remember. That includes being able to forgive the hurtful and morally questionable actions of your girlfriend." He smiled, apparently satisfied with his explanation.

Kurt stared. "That sounds incredibly healthy," he deadpanned, sadly aware that any sarcasm on his part was likely to be ignored.

And it was. "Exactly," Jesse agreed. "If everyone just gave up the first time their partner went for the jugular in a fight, society as we know it would be at a standstill."

He paused. "Besides, Shelby's planning on having me nudge Rachel into initiating contact within the next couple of weeks," he added, "so breaking up with her now would be like ending a play after the first Act."

Wearily, Kurt closed his eyes. "Be honest with me about something," he requested slowly. "Do you actually have feelings for Rachel? Because if you don't, you have to at least _try _to let her down gently. If you're just planning on dumping her as soon as Shelby gets what she wants, then leading her on is just cruel."

When Jesse didn't answer right away, Kurt opened his eyes, only to find Jesse staring at him with a searching expression that was impossible for him to interpret. "What," he asked warily.

Jesse shook his head. "Nothing," he replied quickly. "It's just—I guess you would know about that, wouldn't you?"

Kurt felt his stomach drop, felt the dread sensation of old hurt feelings threaten to surface. He ruthlessly pushed them down. "What are you trying to say?" he bristled, watching Jesse with steely, steady eyes.

Jesse opened his mouth, then paused. "Never mind," he answered quickly, shaking his head as if he were trying to clear his mind. "It was a long time ago."

His tone was soothing, but did nothing to quell Kurt's defensiveness—if anything, it made things worse; Kurt had been on the receiving end of it too many times to trust that it was genuine.

And he was so tired of Jesse's passive aggressiveness.

"If you're implying something about our previous relationship," he said icily, "I'll remind you that it was _you _who asked _me_ out that summer, and _you _who said that we weren't working as a couple. All I did both times was agree with you."

Jesse looked surprised by Kurt's simmering anger. "I remember what happened," he said, still speaking softly, obviously trying to appease Kurt. "I wasn't accusing you of anything."

"Weren't you?" Kurt retorted dryly, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

Maybe it was because Jesse was his first boyfriend, or because he had come into Kurt's life at a tumultuous time, when he had been more emotionally vulnerable than usual, or maybe even because the two of them had remained close after the ultimate breakdown of their romantic relationship. Whatever the reason, Jesse knew how to make Kurt feel terrible like nobody else in his life did, in ways that Kurt was well aware were irrational: guilt over things he hadn't done, hurt and anger and insecurity over things that shouldn't have mattered, issues he should have gotten over.

Despite their mildly antagonistic brand of friendship, it was a card that Jesse rarely played. And, as fate would have it, he was also capable of doing the opposite—building Kurt's self-esteem back up after a rough day, knowing exactly what compliments or constructive criticisms would bring out the best in Kurt.

It didn't make Kurt feel any less sick when he did the former, though.

At least Jesse usually seemed to realize when he had pushed Kurt too far. "I apologize," he said mildly, biting at his lip and watching Kurt with big, soulful eyes. "I didn't mean to upset you, especially over our relationship struggles—you must be having a hard enough time, fighting with Blaine so close to Valentine's Day, without me pouring salt in the wound unnecessarily."

Kurt's head snapped up. "Wait, what?" he asked clumsily, his frustrations with Jesse—and himself—temporarily forgotten. "Who said we were fighting?"

Jesse made a sympathetic face. "You're always more sensitive whenever you're having problems with whomever you're _not_ doing it with," he pointed out. "It's sort of your modus operandi."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Maybe you just happen to be a bigger jerk when I'm upset, instead of being supportive," he suggested, his voice lacking its previous venom. "Did you ever consider that possibility?"

Jesse looked mildly offended. "Kurt, I've always encouraged you to go after your dreams," he insisted, grabbing yet another cupcake off of the table. "And I dragged myself over here on a Sunday morning to eat baked goods and talk about your relationship problems—I don't see how you can say I'm failing to be supportive."

Kurt didn't bother pointing out that he had made the cupcakes at Jesse's request, or that Jesse had come over to talk about _his _difficulties with _Rachel_—experience had taught him that any criticisms of Jesse's faulty logic would likely fall upon deaf ears. "Appreciated," he noted instead. "But Blaine and I are just fine, thank you."

It was only partly untrue: Blaine had called him back the night before, with a second round of apologies for the way he had exploded at Kurt. Kurt, feeling equally guilty for his tunnel vision surrounding Evaluations that had so upset Blaine, had forgiven him easily. They had talked for another hour, promising to try and be more considerate of each other's feelings.

Still, even though their brief fight was over, Kurt still felt like something about their relationship was…_off, _somehow. He was hoping that whatever it was would resolve itself when he saw Blaine again in person (he was meeting Blaine and Blaine's Grandma for lunch the next day during his break at work) but until then, he'd have to put up with his feelings of worry and unease.

Apparently, Kurt's inner conflict was visible on his face. "I get it, you don't want to talk about it," Jesse assessed, handing Kurt a cupcake that Kurt began picking at uselessly. "That's fine. Just know that I'm here for you, if you change your mind."

It was a surprisingly thoughtful offer, given the previous tenor of the conversation, and Kurt looked up at Jesse to thank him.

Prematurely, it seemed: "I mean, I can hardly blame you for feeling conflicted," Jesse pressed on, before Kurt could say a word. "The two of you clearly want different things, and it has to bother you that it would be so easy for him to get what you want—both at Carmel, and in the future—and yet he's so cavalier about it, while you work so hard to earn everything you get." Jesse shook his head. "I know it would be difficult for _me_," he confessed, "and I'm much more assured than you are of success in the future, with my classic vocal tones and masculine good looks."

The knife was threatening to twist again, for different reasons. "Jesse, shut up," Kurt managed to say, through gritted teeth.

Jesse held up a hand defensively. "Right, you don't want to talk about it," he remembered. "No need to get testy. Let's talk about something else."

He leaned over the arm of the couch, fishing through his bag until he found his BlackBerry. "All right," he said with a professional smile, sitting up straight. "Let's discuss our rehearsal schedule. I'm taking the week off at McKinley, but I'll be spending a lot of time with Shelby, Ben, and Andrea, learning all of our music and choreography for Regionals. I'm sure I can squeeze you in somewhere, though; how early in the morning do you get up?"

Kurt, blindsided by the sudden shift in the conversation, blinked slowly. "I'm sorry, what?" he asked, dropping his half-eaten cupcake on the plate and standing up to return it to the kitchen. "Start making sense, please. Anytime you like."

Jesse scoffed. "_Evaluations_, Kurt," he explained impatiently. "Obviously, you're my partner. Try to keep up; we have a lot of work to do."

Only the knowledge that chocolate frosting was an absolute bitch to get out of the upholstery kept Kurt from chucking a cupcake at Jesse's head. "Were you planning on _asking _me if I _wanted_ to be your partner?" he asked, voice dripping with disdain. "Or were you just planning on kidnapping me on Evaluation day?"

Jesse didn't appear to be bothered by Kurt's tone, if his charming smile was any indication. "Were you planning on saying no?" he countered easily.

Kurt didn't answer, carrying the tray with him through the doorway and into the kitchen.

Of course he wasn't, but _still._

Next time Jesse wanted cupcakes, he was baking laxatives into them.

* * *

><p>Even without Jesse's three scheduled rehearsals (he had originally requested five, but was forced to settle for fewer when Kurt threatened to 'lose his voice') Kurt was far busier than he would have liked to be over Spring Break. Besides practicing with Jesse, he also had to carve out blocks of time to rehearse with Sasha and Blaine—all of which had to be scheduled around his shifts at the garage. On top of that, he had what felt like a month's worth of homework to complete, and his application for The Academy needed to be postmarked by the 15th of the month. His essay <em>("Clearly explain your professional goals for the next ten years, and how a summer at YPPSPA will further your future ambitions.")<em> had been written and rewritten several times, but there was still paperwork to fill out, his resume to update and perfect, and, in some cases, adult assistance to recruit.

"I had to email Shelby this morning, about me sending in my application," he told Blaine, on one of their rare mornings out without stacks of sheet music and Blaine's Grandma (she was a very good audience member, and Kurt had to admit, grudgingly, that that having her there greatly increased the amount of practice time they actually spent practicing). "The fine print says that they reserve the right to contact your school's music department if they're on the fence about you, and I hate to think about what she'd end up saying if the phone call surprised her at the wrong moment."

He glanced over his sunglasses at the nearest lamppost, which had a security camera attached to the top. "I'm going to move forward a few inches," he added, casually unbuttoning his coat and leaning against the fence, letting the fabric drape forward. "We should be set."

Blaine had mentioned to Kurt once, during a half-whispered phone call in the middle of the night, that he wished he was allowed to feed the lions at the zoo every once in a while, so that they'd love him best of all. Kurt, never one to back away from a challenge, had tracked down a reasonably local bison farm that sold fresh meat by the pound (and had been both reassured and grossed out when the farmhand he'd spoken to over the phone explained that pickups were twice a week, and that his order needed to be placed at least 24 hours in advance, so they'd know how many animals to kill). The drive had been fifty miles each way, but it had been worth it to see the expression on Blaine's face when Kurt had pulled up in front of his house at 9:30am with a small cooler, a fresh box of disposable gloves, and bags under his eyes.

Once the folds of Kurt's coat were completely obscuring Blaine from the camera—and the group of grade school kids at the elephant exhibit were far enough away that his movements would be unnoticeable—Blaine unbuttoned his own coat, pulling out the ziploc back full of raw bison. "She'd say nice things about you anyway," he pointed out, as they waited for the light breeze to carry the heady scent of the offering over to the baby lions.

Who weren't quite babies anymore, Kurt couldn't help but observe, as the closest one perked up, freezing in place. They were still much smaller than their mother, who was thankfully nowhere to be seen, but they were certainly larger than they'd been when Kurt had first met them, just over three months ago.

"I hope so," he responded absently, glancing around them to make sure the coast was still clear, before looking back at the outdoor pen. "Look, here they come."

One by one, Blaine's lions came romping over to the fence, sniffing curiously at the air, then at the strips of meat that Blaine surreptitiously tossed through the bars.

* * *

><p>Kurt had no idea how smart lions actually were, or if they made any distinction between different humans at all. But as he and Blaine walked back to the car, Blaine's arm wrapped around Kurt's waist (after disposing of his gloves and triple-washing his hands in the men's room) and face buried in Kurt's shoulder as he rambled on and on about his new future aspirations of being a zookeeper, Kurt couldn't help but hope, for his sake, that they did.<p>

* * *

><p>The mechanics in the shop, though not a fashion-forward group on the whole, nevertheless had nothing but nice things to say when Kurt walked into the garage on Friday afternoon, his tailored coat open and revealing his best suit underneath.<p>

"Looking snazzy, Kid," Jason teased him, leaning over the hood of the rusty pickup truck he was working on. "Got a hot date?"

"Every February 12th," Kurt reminded him, forcing the smile to stay on his face—it wouldn't do anyone any good if he killed the mood in the room. "I have flowers in the car and everything."

Jason nodded solemnly, remembering. "You'll be here to pick your dad up, then," he reasoned, as the rest of the on-duty mechanics got back to work. "He's been in the back for a while, now."

When Kurt thanked him, he waved it off with a greasy hand. "Just say hi to your mom for me," he told Kurt, who nodded silently in agreement.

* * *

><p>Burt was on the phone when Kurt reached his office. When he saw Kurt standing in the doorway, he glanced at the clock, looking surprised, before wearily gesturing for Kurt to have a seat on the couch.<p>

"How bad is the damage?" he asked whomever was on the other line, whistling softly after a moment when, presumably, he was given the answer. "That bad, huh? Anyone hurt?"

While Burt continued to talk on the phone, Kurt opened his bag and pulled out his completed Academy application. Putting a pen in his dad's hand, he flipped through the pages, pointing at each line that required a parental signature. Burt dutifully signed on each line, only looking up briefly before signing the $35 check Kurt had filled out to cover the application fee.

He was still on the phone while Kurt double-checked the paperwork, making sure everything was included, and sealed it all in the neatly addressed manila envelope he'd bought the week before. Tuning out the conversation, Kurt stared at the light package, his mouth weirdly dry. It was ironic, how such a small item had the potential to mean so much to Kurt, and his future.

If college applications were as stressful as that, no wonder so many of his friends who were seniors had turned into sleep-deprived lunatics with anger management issues.

"No, that's fine. See you, Bob," Burt said finally, hanging up the phone with an uncharacteristically deep sigh. He adjusted the baseball cap on his head with one hand, looking up at Kurt from his seat. "You finished your application, then?" he asked, sounding tired.

Kurt slipped the envelope back into his bag. "Finally," he confirmed with a nervous smile. "Can we stop by the Post Office on the way to visit Mom?" he wanted to know. "I want to put a Delivery Confirmation on the envelope, so it doesn't get 'lost in the mail'."

Burt looked apologetically at him, and Kurt knew the gist of what he was going to say before he even had the chance to open his mouth. "You're not coming," he stated flatly, folding his arms over his chest as Burt sighed again.

"Buddy, I'm sorry," he told Kurt earnestly, closing his eyes briefly. "There was a huge accident out on I-75 about an hour ago. Nobody was killed, but workers are still trying to clear everyone out of the cars. All the lanes are blocked; they're sending every guy with a truck within 100 miles to help."

Kurt nodded his understanding, his jaw tight.

Burt pushed himself up from his desk, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair and slipping it over his shoulders. "You still go today, all right?" Burt insisted. "Spend time with your mom. I'll go tomorrow, maybe even tonight, if I get home before the cemetery closes."

Sliding his keys into his pocket, he paused, standing in front of Kurt. "You're mad," he stated simply. It wasn't a question.

Kurt felt his eyes burning, though his vision remained clear, and he knew that his fingers were leaving marks where they were digging into the sleeves of his coat. "I know it's not your fault," he admitted slowly, not meeting Burt's eyes. "But yes, I'm angry."

He heard his dad take a deep breath. Gentle hands gripped his arms, wrapping around his biceps. "This is not me abandoning you, okay?" Burt promised, bending over just far enough that Kurt was forced to look at him. "You gotta know that I'd rather be with you two today, than out lugging cars off the highway. But the longer we wait to clear the road, the riskier it is for everyone, and the more people get hurt."

Kurt nodded again, more resigned than bitter this time, at his dad's explanation. It was one he'd heard before, and he understood how important the need for skilled mechanics, people who could get a vehicle out of an accident scene without exacerbating the damage, was in the field.

Still, it didn't make the prospect of spending the rest of the day alone any easier.

His dad was still watching him with that searching expression he'd been using on Kurt for years. "I really am sorry about this, Buddy," he repeated, giving Kurt's shoulders a little shake. "Listen, why don't I take the day off tomorrow? We can go see your mom together, maybe go out for brunch after. Sound good?"

The childish, resentful part of Kurt wanted to refuse immediately, out of sheer spite. Shaking his head, he stuffed it down. "Ask me tomorrow," he answered instead, voice thin but steady.

Burt watched him for another minute. "Okay," he said finally. "I'll call and let you know when I'm coming home, all right?"

Kurt nodded. "Bye, Dad," he offered quietly. "Be safe."

* * *

><p>When his dad and two of the four other mechanics had gone, split between two trucks, Kurt sat down gingerly in Burt's rolling chair. After staring unseeingly at the photo in the place of honor on his dad's desk (himself and his mother when Kurt was three, his mother's long hair flying as she twirled Kurt around in circles on the front lawn), he opened his bag again.<p>

Blaine answered on the third ring. "Hey, Kurt," he said breathlessly, most likely having run for the phone. "Did you mail your application?"

Kurt shook his head, briefly forgetting that Blaine couldn't see him. "Not yet," he croaked. "Blaine…"

"What's wrong?" Blaine asked immediately, sounding worried. "Are you okay?"

Kurt closed his eyes. He hadn't said anything to Blaine precisely _because _he didn't want him to worry about him, and because he thought he'd have his dad. But now, given the accident, things were different.

"It's my mom's birthday," he explained quietly.

For a moment, Blaine was quiet. Then, Kurt heard him exhale sharply. "I'm on my way," he promised.

* * *

><p>The drive to the cemetery from Kurt's house was quiet, the sky grey and bleak outside the car.<p>

Blaine had arrived less than an hour after Kurt had called, and had quickly picked up on the fact that Kurt wasn't really up to much, conversationally. Being the good boyfriend that he was, he'd merely straightened his tie and offered to drive, before letting Kurt have the silence that he needed.

Kurt knew the route to the cemetery far better and had ended up driving, so it wasn't until they were actually there and weaving through the headstones, shoes crunching over the frozen grass, that Kurt noticed Blaine's outfit—a black overcoat, stiffer than the one he usually wore, a maroon dress shirt, and a dark pair of dress pants with a similarly-colored tie. "You look nice," he praised softly, maneuvering away from Blaine in order to avoid stepping on a flat grave marker.

Blaine glanced down at his clothes, blushing. "Not as nice as you do," he promised, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "But thank you. I was feeling a little bit nervous about meeting your mom, and I figured overdressing a little was better than the alternative."

Kurt smiled sadly at Blaine's admission, sweet as it was. "You don't have to pretend it's the same as actually meeting her," he told Blaine, leading him around a giant oak tree. "I know it's not."

Blaine bit his lip, clearly unsure of what to say. Kurt took pity on him, reaching out and lacing his fingers through Blaine's. "For what it's worth, though, she would have liked you," he assured him.

Blaine's tentative smile warmed him a little, and it wasn't long before they reached the familiar spot in the clearing.

* * *

><p>When Kurt was eight, his dad had let him choose whether or not he wanted an etching on his mom's headstone, and Kurt had poured over the laminated pages with all the intensity the choice had deserved before selecting an intricate rose carving. Now, letting go of Blaine's hand and squatting down near the ground, it was the rose he traced with his hand, running his fingers over the delicate lines that formed the petals.<p>

"Hey, Mom," he whispered, ignoring the lump in his throat that seemed to form every time he visited, whether or not he was actively feeling sad. "Happy Birthday."

Kurt felt, more than heard, Blaine squat down next to him, and he turned his head slightly. "I usually talk to her a little, when I'm here," he warned Blaine belatedly, smiling wryly.

Blaine nodded seriously. "Okay," he acknowledged. "Do you want me to…I can give you some privacy, if you want."

Kurt shook his head, his smile a little more genuine at the earnestness with which Blaine had offered. "No, it's fine," he promised, "I was just letting you know, since it's kind of weird."

Blaine's eyes were wide. "It's not weird," he insisted, "she's your mom. Of course you want to talk to her."

They were silent for a while, Kurt trying to decide what, if anything, he wanted to say to his mom in front of Blaine. Blaine was holding his hand again, and if his legs were starting to ache from squatting for so long, the way that Kurt's were, he didn't complain.

After a few minutes, he squeezed Kurt's hand. "Didn't you tell me once that you usually sing to your mom, when you're here?" he wondered, eyes bright as he smiled softly at Kurt.

Kurt bit the inside of his cheek. "Usually, yes," he said carefully. "But…" He paused, not really wanting to admit that he often ended up on the verge of tears when he did.

Blaine turned Kurt's hand over with both of his, tracing the lines on Kurt's palm. "We can duet on _Happy Birthday_, if you want to," he suggested, glancing up at Kurt's face before looking back down at their fingers. "Have you ever sung a duet with anyone for her?"

Kurt laughed quietly at the idea of him and Blaine harmonizing, looking thoroughly ridiculous in matching party hats. "No, never," he admitted, smiling. "It's usually just me visiting, or me and my dad, and he claims to be the worst singer in Ohio. Apparently, there was a vote."

He shrugged, getting to his feet—his joints were starting to bother him—and bringing Blaine with him. "Jesse came with me once last year, so I guess we could have done it then, but it started raining pretty hard, so we didn't stay long enough."

He shook his head at the memory. Neither he nor Jesse had bothered to check the weather report that day, and had gotten drenched when a downpour of Biblical proportions had come down on their heads, barely a minute after reaching his mom's grave.

"_If I didn't know better," Jesse had said later on, when they were drying themselves off with a pair of old beach towels in Kurt's garage before going inside, "I'd say your mother was trying to tell us something." _

_When Kurt had come downstairs after showering, having used the upstairs bathroom so that Jesse could have his, it was to find Jesse already dressed in Kurt's clothes and standing in the kitchen, making steaming mugs of hot chocolate._

"_I think I figured it out," he'd declared triumphantly. "She was trying to say, 'you're out of mini-marshmallows, and your pizza coupons are about to expire. Better order in and invite Jesse over for dinner."_

"Was that when you were still together?" Blaine's voice broke Kurt out of his reverie. He shook his head, as if the motion could physically clear away the memories.

Still, he could feel himself smiling; that had been a good day. "After we broke up, actually," he told Blaine, who looked surprised by Kurt's answer. "It was last spring; sometime in April, I think. Warmer than now, certainly."

Blaine's eyebrows were still raised. Kurt reached over to smooth them down. "You must have such a weird impression of him," he mused, leaving his hand on Blaine's cheek briefly, before letting it drop back down to take Blaine's hand. "I know I complain about him a lot, and he can be such a self-centered jerk when he wants to be. But he really does have my best interests at heart, at least 90% of the time; he's just really terrible at showing it—you have to read between the lines with him."

He rolled his eyes, smiling. "He's the only person that I've ever told that I both love him and would love for him to go jump off a cliff," he confessed. "In the same conversation, too."

Blaine smirked faintly, but the expression didn't reach his eyes. "I'm glad he was there for you anyway," he offered. "That you had someone to visit her with, and you didn't have to be alone."

He shrugged uncomfortably, looking at the ground. "I wish I could have known you sooner," he admitted, his long lashes hiding his eyes from view.

Like so many of the other important moments of their relationship—their first meeting, Kurt's post it notes, their first kiss, the night in Kurt's kitchen, their conversation on the roof—Kurt didn't plan the moment in advance, not really. But when he looked at Blaine, sweet and hopeful and supportive no matter what, Kurt knew it was time.

"I love you, you know," he said quietly, gazing softly at Blaine. "Maybe it's too early to say it, but I don't care; that's how I feel."

Blaine's head had snapped up, and he was looking at Kurt with wide, disbelieving eyes. His hand was trembling slightly in Kurt's.

"You don't have to say it back," Kurt assured him gently, giving his fingers a comforting squeeze, "not if you don't—"

"I do," Blaine interrupted him breathlessly, snapping out of whatever had kept him frozen in place after Kurt's confession. "God, I do."

Kurt let out a huge sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God," he exhaled, feeling strangely lighter, as if a weight he hadn't known he was carrying had been lifted off of his shoulders. "That would have been really awkward, otherwise."

Blaine's smile was brighter that Kurt had ever seen it, and he dove at Kurt, throwing his arms around his waist and pressing his lips to the side of his face with a force that nearly knocked them both over. Kurt hugged him back, laughing gently, before turning Blaine's face with his hand in order to kiss him.

To his surprise, Blaine stepped back out of Kurt's hold. "Sorry," he apologized, blushing profusely. "It's not that I don't—I really, _really _want to kiss you right now," he promised, still grinning. "But…I kind of feel like a terrible, creepy person, kissing you in front of your mom."

Kurt blinked. That was…a surprisingly good point that had never come up before. "My house?" he suggested. When Blaine nodded, he squatted back down, kissing the palm of his hand and pressing it to his mom's headstone.

"I'll come back with Dad tomorrow, okay?" he whispered, quietly enough that Blaine wouldn't hear him. "I love you."

Kurt stood back up—his knees were going to hate him the next day—and took Blaine's hand again. "Bye, Mom," he said softly, feeling Blaine's fingers tightening around his.

"Bye, Mrs. Hummel," Blaine echoed seriously. "It was nice to meet you."

* * *

><p>If the drive from Kurt's house to the cemetery had been subdued, then the drive home was the complete opposite. Kurt felt wired, aware of Blaine's presence next to him like he'd never been before, a crackling energy filling the car that set his nerve endings on fire. He forced himself to concentrate on the road, afraid he'd glance over at Blaine and end up staring, rather than watching the road like he ought to be. Blaine, who didn't have any vehicular responsibilities to distract him, was staring shamelessly at Kurt every time Kurt caught a glimpse of him in his peripheral vision, his dark eyes filled with love and warmth and want.<p>

It was the longest drive home of Kurt's entire life.

* * *

><p>Kurt barely had the chance to close the front door behind them when Blaine had him pinned to it, pressing him into the hard surface and kissing him deeply. His hands on Kurt's arms were cold from being outside, but his mouth was warm, and Kurt hastily bit back a moan as Blaine's body pushed against his own. Blaine was controlling the pace, and unlike the fast and frantic kissing that Kurt had expected after the charged car ride home (and that they had gotten <em>so<em> good at), Blaine was taking his time. The result was slow and intense, different than anything they had ever done before, leaving Kurt breathless and wrecked with need.

"Downstairs," he managed to gasp when Blaine's attentions moved to his neck, his teeth scraping lightly over Kurt's skin. "My room."

* * *

><p>Kurt didn't have time to reflect on the miracle of him making it down the stairs in one piece (an astonishing accomplishment, given how much of his blood was in his dick) before Blaine's mouth was back on his, his hands skimming down Kurt's back and around his sides until they'd reached his waistband.<p>

"Can I?" Blaine asked between kisses, pulling Kurt's dress shirt free and stroking the bare skin of Kurt's stomach with light fingers.

Kurt recognized absently that he should have been surprised at Blaine's request; that it was the first time that Blaine was attempting to take things further, rather than Kurt being the one to initiate the next step. Blaine's hands were beginning to caress him more firmly, though, as Kurt melted into his touch, and analyzing Blaine's behavior would have required far too much thinking.

"Shirt off, first," he requested instead, loosening and pulling off Blaine's tie before starting in on the row of buttons. When he had unbuttoned enough of them, Blaine yanked his shirt off over his head, throwing it on the ground and discarding his undershirt the same way before darting forward to help Kurt do the same.

Kurt's fingers itched with the need to touch. Seeing Blaine that way—shirtless and hair disheveled and breathing heavily—took Kurt's breath away every single time. He was just so ridiculously beautiful, and he didn't even seem to realize it. "God, you're gorgeous," he breathed, before he could stop himself. Not that he wanted to; Blaine's cheeks flushed a wonderfully delicate pink at Kurt's comment.

Blaine bit his lip. "Come here," he requested quietly, taking Kurt's hand and leading him over to the bed.

Kurt paused long enough to pull off his socks before climbing onto the mattress, crawling to the center of the bed and turning to look at Blaine with hooded eyes. Blaine was watching him as he unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down to the floor, eyes dark and lips red where he and Kurt had both bitten them.

"Okay," he said softly, "All right."

Kurt didn't have the chance to ask which one of them Blaine was talking to because suddenly, Blaine was crawling across the bed and straddling his lap, settling into place and gently cradling Kurt's face in his hands.

"I'm nervous about this," Blaine admitted, glancing down at Kurt's chest before looking back up at him. "But I've thought about it, and I promise that this is what I want. Okay?"

Kurt's hands had found their way to Blaine's waist; his skin impossibly warm and soft under his palms. "Okay," he managed, voice rougher than usual. "If you're sure."

Rather than answer out loud, Blaine leaned forward to recapture Kurt's mouth, letting go of Kurt's face in order to brace himself on the bed. Easing them down until Kurt's back was flush against the mattress, he pulled back long enough to take Kurt's bottom lip between his teeth, pulling slightly before leaning back in and deepening the kiss. Moaning softly, Kurt didn't register that Blaine's hand was no longer in his hair until he felt Blaine's fingers curling around his hipbone, squeezing gently before finally moving inward and brushing over his cock.

A soft cry tore out of Kurt's throat, and he bucked up into Blaine's hand. He could feel Blaine smiling into his mouth at his response, and he stroked Kurt again with a firmer hand, lifting his body off of Kurt's just enough to get at Kurt's zipper with his other hand. Kurt reached down to help him, and the two of them managed to work Kurt's pants off and kick them to the end of the bed.

Blaine's hand was back on Kurt's erection, only the thin layer of Kurt's underwear between them, and Kurt wondered briefly if it was possible to _die _from sexual stimulation, before he gave up on thinking altogether and just let himself feel.

Unfortunately, that was when Blaine chose to pull his hand away and sit up, causing Kurt's eyes to snap open.

"Wait, why—" he stuttered, breathing harshly, absently recognizing Blaine's own tented underwear and bright red cheeks.

"Sorry, I—" Blaine panted, seemingly as worked up as Kurt. "It's just, my hand is—do you have any…"

Kurt looked at him blankly, still breathing raggedly, too far gone to figure out what Blaine was asking. Blaine took a deep breath and exhaled sharply, his breath tickling Kurt's chest and making him shudder.

"My hand is pretty dry and I don't want to hurt you," Blaine tried again, turning even redder. "Do you have anything I can use, or…"

_Oh. _Kurt nodded quickly, reaching for the drawer in his nightstand. "You're adorable," he noted, pulling out the mostly-full bottle of lubricant and passing it to Blaine, who scoffed, embarrassed.

"Just what every guy wants to hear," he told Kurt, uncapping the bottle and squeezing a small amount into his hand—and yeah, Kurt was definitely going to spontaneously combust from that visual alone.

"I can't help it," he admitted, "I like it when you blush." Dropping the bottle back into the drawer, he flopped back down on the bed, shooting what he hoped was a sultry look at Blaine. "Go ahead, rock my world," he requested, the slight growl in his voice completely at odds with the smile that broke out on his face in response to Blaine's answering nod.

And Holy Shit, did Blaine ever take direction.

Reaching for Kurt's hand with his clean one, he tugged Kurt back up, crawling behind him and spreading out his legs so that Kurt was seated between them, leaning against Blaine's bare chest. He hooked his chin over Kurt's shoulder, nipping lightly at his jaw and smoothing his warm hand over the planes of Kurt's chest, holding him in place as he plunged his lube-covered hand into Kurt's boxer-briefs.

Kurt cried out sharply at the sudden sensation, his hips briefly leaving the bed as Blaine's slick, warm fingers encircled his length and began pumping. Blaine's arm tightened around his chest, pinning him in place as his hand jerked faster, twisting slightly each time his thumb and forefinger reached the head of Kurt's cock.

Kurt had been turned on for so long that he was falling apart embarrassingly quickly, trapped between Blaine's hand and arm and chest and the warm, twitching bulge at the small of his back that he knew was Blaine's own erection, straining his underwear and leaving a small, warm, wet spot on Kurt's bare skin. To top it all off, Blaine was _growling _in his ear, his voice low and rough as he whispered brokenly that Kurt was "_beautiful, God, Kurt, how are you so amazing?"_.

Kurt's back arched and Blaine loosened his hold, letting Kurt's hips thrust forward to meet each stroke of his hand. "_Let go_," Blaine whispered in his ear, as Kurt unraveled.

"_It's okay, just let go." _

His hand tightened around Kurt's cock, finally sending Kurt over the edge. He came with a strangled shout, Blaine's hand still stroking him through it as streams of stringy, white come spilled from Kurt and coated his fingers, dripping onto the sheets.

Kurt sank back into Blaine, boneless and spent, vaguely aware through his post-orgasmic haze that Blaine was easing his underwear down his legs, using it to wipe the come from his hand and gently clean Kurt off. When he had finished, tossing Kurt's underwear in the direction of the laundry hamper and wrapping his arms around him, Kurt turned his head slightly, resting his cheek on Blaine's chest.

"I think you broke me," he declared, voice slightly dazed.

Blaine's chest rumbled faintly underneath him in laughter. "Thank you?" he asked, stroking Kurt's hair with his cleaner hand.

Kurt echoed his laughter. "No, no, thank _you_," he replied earnestly, tilting his head to look up at Blaine. "Where on Earth did you even learn how to _do _that?" he wanted to know.

Blaine, who had been gazing down at him warmly, suddenly looked away. "I, uh…" he started, before sighing sheepishly. "I may have done some research," he confessed, glancing quickly at Kurt before averting his eyes again.

Kurt was starting to feel like himself again, at least enough to notice that Blaine was still achingly hard behind him. "Did you, now," he purred, turning in Blaine's arms so that they were facing each other. He kissed Blaine hungrily, licking into his mouth, before pulling away and kissing hot and wet down Blaine's body. "Well, let me"—neck—"show you"—chest—"just how much"—stomach—"I _appreciate_ your hard work."

His lips were poised just above the waistband of Blaine's boxers, and he looked up at Blaine, drinking him in, as he eased them down.

* * *

><p>Kurt had been too distracted to turn on a light when they had first come downstairs, which had been fine—the outside light coming in through the windows had been more than enough to see by. An hour later, however, the sun was almost completely set, and Kurt reluctantly pulled away from Blaine long enough to switch on the desk lamp. Task accomplished, he settled back into Blaine's waiting arms, curling his leg back around Blaine's and tugging his blanket back up over their still-naked bodies.<p>

Kurt lay his head back down on Blaine's chest, stroking the dark hair that had already started to grow there—just last summer, according to Blaine. As coarse as it looked, it felt soft under Kurt's fingers, surprisingly so. They could have used a shower—they'd done a reasonably good job cleaning themselves up, but cotton was no match for soap and water—but Kurt had no intention of moving, at least not for another hour.

Or ever, maybe.

Blaine's fingers were gently carding through his hair. "Kurt?" he asked quietly, as he slowly combed the tousled strands back into place. "Do I seem…angrier to you, lately? It's just…Grandma said so, and I don't know." He sighed softly, moving Kurt the slightest bit. "I've felt better lately," he explained, "but I think she might be right."

Kurt blinked slowly, thinking about the question. "Honestly? A little, yes," he admitted after a moment. "But I just thought it was because you weren't sleeping."

At Blaine's surprised look, Kurt patted his chest reassuringly. "I know everything," he reminded Blaine, the corners of his mouth creeping up. "Also, before this week, you had some pretty serious bags under your eyes, which is a fairly reliable indication."

Blaine exhaled. "Kurt Hummel, Master Detective," he replied, laughing when Kurt squawked and lightly bit his collarbone in retaliation.

"We're adjusting my medication," he confessed, after a minute. "I'm hoping it'll help, but Dr. Ramirez thinks I need an outlet."

Kurt snuggled back into Blaine's chest, humming interestedly. "Does she have any suggestions?" he wanted to know.

Blaine shook his head. "She said to try and brainstorm this week," he explained. "Things I like to do, that I have, or could make, the time for."

Kurt nodded—as much as he could, anyway, with his cheek pressed to Blaine. "You could stress-clean," he offered lightly. "That's what I do."

Blaine snorted. "I'd noticed," he said dryly, scratching gently at the back of Kurt's neck before letting his hand drift down Kurt's back. "I thought boxing might be a good fit. I liked karate when I was a kid, but I think I want something that doesn't involve testing or ranks."

Kurt shrugged. "It would be a good stress-reliever," he agreed. "I'd just be worried that your instinctual response to anger or stress would be to hit things, then."

Blaine made a face. "That's actually a good point," he admitted, "I hadn't thought about that. Any other ideas?"

Kurt considered it. "How about gymnastics?" he suggested. "Coach Walker is always looking for guys. It's fun, it's physical, and there are a lot of different events to choose from, so you could try things until you found something you liked."

He grinned. "Also, I'd get to see you in a lycra bodysuit," he added impishly.

Blaine groaned. "You're seeing me in my birthday suit right now," he retorted, hugging Kurt closer to him. "But I don't think I have any gymnastic talent whatsoever—the stretches are helping, but I'm still not nearly as flexible as most of the other guys."

Kurt didn't answer out loud, even though privately he agreed. Telling his boyfriend that yes, he'd be a terrible gymnast, was probably not the way to go—not if he wanted to keep said boyfriend.

Plus, Blaine had moved on. "I should take up fencing," he said, smiling. "It's not like I could get angry at someone and say, 'Hang on, let me go get my sword'." He sighed, his smile fading a bit. "I doubt they even teach fencing anywhere nearby, though," he lamented. "Maybe I'll take it up in college."

Blaine's words sparked something in the back of Kurt's memory. "Wait, hold on," he interrupted. "I'm pretty sure they teach fencing at Douchebag Academy. We could call and see if they offer lessons to the general public, or if they know of any teachers in the area."

Blaine wrinkled his nose. "Douchebag Academy?" he asked, sounding confused. "What is that, even?"

Kurt shrugged again, feeling slightly guilty. "It's what some of the guys in VA call Dalton Academy," he explained, rolling his eyes. "We've competed against their show choir before, and we usually go to their Invitationals."

He bit his lip at Blaine's frown. "They're not _really_—I haven't really talked to anyone who goes there, but I'm sure they're great guys," he backpedaled a little. "It's just what the upperclassmen called them when I started at Carmel, and the name sort of stuck in my brain. The only negative things I've ever heard about them is that their dancing isn't very complex, and that their meetings can get a little pedantic. I'm sure they're nice."

"They are," Blaine agreed quietly. "I have friends there."

Kurt blinked in surprise, his eyelashes scraping lightly over Blaine's skin on one side. "Oh," he breathed softly. "I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean anything by it."

After a moment, Blaine nodded. "I know you didn't," he sighed. "You didn't know."

He paused. "Are you upset?"

Kurt looked up at him, puzzled. "Why would I be upset?" he asked. He honestly wasn't sure what he was supposed to be upset _about_; he was the one who inadvertently insulted _Blaine's_ friends, not the other way around.

"That I made other friends at a different school and I never told you," Blaine answered simply, watching Kurt's face for his reaction.

Kurt thought about it for a minute, still not connecting the dots. "No," he said slowly, "you're allowed to have friends."

A dark thought occurred to him. "Unless," he began carefully, pausing. "Is there a certain reason you didn't say anything to me about them?" he wanted to know, starting to feel vaguely panicky. "Am I—do I make you feel like you can't have other friends, or that you can't tell me things?"

Blaine's eyes widened. "No. Hey, no," he said apologetically, cupping Kurt's face with his hand. "That's not how I feel at all," he soothed, "you didn't do anything wrong. I just…"

He paused, visibly struggling for words. Kurt waited, watching him silently.

"It's not like I actively chose not to tell you," Blaine explained finally, looking up at the ceiling, away from Kurt. "I don't know. I never really talk about that sort of thing with anyone else, except for you and Dr. Ramirez, and I _definitely _didn't think to mention it to anyone at school, since my friends at Dalton are in the Warblers. I guess…I don't know. I don't know why I didn't say anything to you, but I didn't mean anything by it, I promise."

Kurt couldn't really argue with that, even if it wasn't the answer he wanted to hear—though to be perfectly fair, he wasn't sure if there _was _an answer that would have made him feel better. But getting angry at Blaine for not telling him things about his friends would have been hypocritical of Kurt, given how he'd deliberately withheld information about Jesse at the beginning of their relationship. And even if it didn't make him happy that Blaine had kept things from him, it wasn't like Blaine had been _trying _to hurt his feelings, and he didn't want to make Blaine feel like Kurt didn't want him to have any friends besides him.

* * *

><p>It was sort of ironic, Kurt mused, nestling further into Blaine's bare skin as Blaine's arms tightened around him, that such a dichotomy could exist in his mind: that he and Blaine could be growing ever closer, even as it felt a little like Blaine was slowly slipping away.<p> 


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21/30-ish. So. Much. Exposition.

….is anyone still reading this? Just making sure :)

I own nothing, you're all lovely, I'll say it every time.

* * *

><p>The sun was barely visible over the horizon when Kurt pulled into the parking lot at Carmel on Monday morning. His email to Shelby regarding his Academy application had been answered with a request for a before-school appointment, and Kurt had agreed to the early morning meeting, assuming that Shelby wouldn't have scheduled it for such an ungodly hour if she had any other time available. As a reward for getting out of bed almost two hours earlier than usual (to a hot shower and a thick, cable-knit sweater—sleep deprivation made him freezing and shaky every time), he had stopped by the Lima Bean right as it was opening at 6:00am, picking up two mochas for himself and a cappuccino for Shelby.<p>

Bribery might have been the most transparent form of sucking up, but that didn't mean it wasn't effective.

And it was—Shelby took her drink from Kurt with a satisfied expression. "No milk, I hope?" she asked expectantly, a test of Kurt's memory so early in the morning.

He smiled. "I asked them to use soy milk," he promised. "I know you have voice lessons during the day, and dairy would be counterproductive."

"Very good," Shelby praised, taking a sip. "And speaking of voice lessons…"

That was all she had to say. "They want two 32-measure segments from contrasting pieces," Kurt explained, his hand tightening on the strap of his bag. "I'm narrowing down the songs I'm thinking of using, but I was hoping that once I get it down to four or five, someone in the department might help me choose, and maybe work on them with me a few times."

Shelby nodded. "Bring them to me," she ordered. "I'll either do it myself, or I'll get you an appointment with Zach, and look over his notes."

Kurt nodded back—'Zach' was Zachariah Jones, one of the department's vocal coaches, who worked almost exclusively with tenors. It wouldn't be a perfect fit for his voice, but it was probably the best he was going to do, unless Shelby really did decide to work with him personally.

Shelby was still talking. "And you can cross anything that's debuted on Broadway in the last two years, or has been made into a movie in the last five, off of your list—the judges will be sick of hearing them by now, and it won't do you any favors. The same goes for _Wicked_ and _Phantom_, which is really a shame in your case."

She looked at him appraisingly. "I don't have to tell you the basics, you already know them—diversify your song choices, bring extra, unmarked copies of your sheet music, treat it professionally, etc. This is not an American Idol audition."

Kurt bit back a smile. Although Vocal Adrenaline tended to cover more popular music, Shelby often cracked down on them when she felt they were becoming too 'pop star'.

"_Save it for karaoke night," _she'd insist in a derisive tone._ "Keep the amateur theatrics off of my stage."_

"Your monologue," Shelby said, interrupting Kurt's thoughts. "Have you picked it?" When Kurt shook his head, she smiled. "Good. Nobody picks the right pieces for themselves until they've done this a hundred times. Who do you have for Theatre, Davis?"

Kurt shook his head again. "I had him last year," he explained. "Ms. Foster's teaching Level II this year."

Shelby closed her eyes. "Right," she murmured. "Okay. Go to one of them for help choosing a piece, and tell them that I want you doing something from a _play_, _not _a musical. Have one of them help you stage it, and perform it for both classes before the end of the month. Ignore any feedback that doesn't come from someone with a college degree—you're not there for constructive criticism from your classmates, you're there to get experience with your monologue in front of an audience. Understood?"

"Understood," Kurt agreed, jotting her instructions down for later. "And thank you, for taking the time to help me. I know how busy you are, and I appreciate you making room for me in your schedule."

Shelby took a sip of her cappuccino. "It's not as simple as that," she told him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Sarita Jackson is the lead instructor of your program, and is a colleague of mine. Talent is fifty percent of the selection process, but prestige makes up a good chunk of the rest—coming from Carmel assures that your application will be one of the ones that crosses her desk, and I guarantee that she'll be interested to see what you can do. Which means that your auditors are going to assume that I had a hand in prepping you for next month, whether I did or not. It'll reflect better on both of us if I actually do."

Kurt swallowed. He had to admit that he knew being from Carmel would give him an edge over a number of other competitors for a spot at the Academy, but it hadn't occurred to him that the same situation might work against him—or that it would reflect on, and inconvenience, Shelby.

"What's the rest of the selection process?" he asked, trying not to sound nervous—the last thing he wanted to do was make her think he wasn't up to the challenge.

Shelby didn't react, an indication that Kurt had done a reasonable job. "Talent, prestige, and marketability," she answered, closing her eyes briefly before opening them with a tired sigh. "The golden trifecta of the pre-professional field."

She looked at Kurt thoughtfully.

"You're incredibly gay," she stated without preamble.

Kurt choked slightly, and Shelby smiled. "Calm down, Kurt," she insisted, "I'm not saying it's a bad thing. It works in your favor, actually—you have no idea how much more work I have to do when someone's sexuality isn't so clear cut. I feel like I have Jesse in here every six months, reshaping his image; last fall, in particular, was a nightmare. At least this year, he seems to have gotten the memo that judges don't like ambiguity. They like stereotypes, people they can put into precise boxes. In the most unironic sense, they like people they can easily judge."

She nodded at the notebook in Kurt's hand. "At bigger auditions, including the ones for the Summer Performance Academy, there are often plants in the waiting room, checking out the field. Most people can be coached into conducting themselves appropriately during an audition, but that doesn't mean anything if they can't be trusted to uphold an appropriate image when the director or producer isn't watching. Having an extra pair of eyes observing, when everyone has their guard down, is one way they like to weed people out. Write this down:"

Over the next half an hour, Shelby threw an overwhelming amount of information at him—who to talk to at an open audition, when to keep his mouth shut, the types of people he didn't want to publicly associate with, how many clubs and organizations he could be affiliated with (and a few to steer clear of), how to handle questions about his personal life that he didn't want to answer, etc.—and Kurt's hand began cramping as he struggled to write everything down.

"Do you think I'm going to need all of this next month?" he asked meekly, when Shelby paused during her lecture for another sip of coffee.

She looked at him impatiently. "Of course not," she replied, a hint of incredulity in her voice. "But you're going to need some of it, and you won't know until you're there what's useful in the moment and what isn't. And I can tell you, Kurt, that all of it is going to be critical at some point down the line—future auditions, musical theatre programs, your professional career. It's never too early to be the person you want to be, Kurt, and that means presenting yourself the way in which you want to be seen. If and when you're established, you can branch out more, take risks. I'm just trying to make sure that you don't inadvertently close the door on any opportunities because you don't know any better."

If Shelby had more to say on the topic, Kurt (thankfully, as his head was about to explode) didn't get the chance to hear it—a knock on the door made him jump in surprise.

One of the school's security guards was standing in the doorway, a tall, dark-haired man in his fifties. "Ms. Corcoran," he greeted, "I've got a shipment of boxes out here for you. Are you expecting something, or should I run them through the detector and have them searched?"

Shelby smiled at him. "Thank you, Andre, but that won't be necessary—the costumes for our next competition were scheduled to arrive today or tomorrow. You can leave them in here; I'll have my students move them when we need them."

Andre nodded his agreement, and rolled a dolly with four enormous cardboard boxes on it into the room before excusing himself to get the rest.

"Pick a box," Shelby encouraged dryly, rummaging through her desk. Kurt, not sure whether or not she was being serious, gamely pointed to one of two boxes on top.

Emerging from the drawer with a heavy-duty, well-used box cutter, Shelby slit the tape on the box that Kurt had selected and pulled out a strappy, high-heeled black shoe. "These are for _Bohemian Rhapsody _and _Like a Rolling Stone,_" she commented, more to herself than to Kurt. "Which means, of course, that the costumes for those two numbers will be in the very last boxes I open."

She glanced over at Kurt. "I don't suppose you have an affinity for sorting clothes?" she asked halfheartedly, gesturing at the remaining packages.

Kurt smiled back diplomatically. "If it means I get first crack at the costumes? I can put my talents to good use," he offered, trying not to sound too eager—the idea of sorting through God-only-knew how many boxes wasn't necessarily appealing, but seeing the costumes for _his _number?

Definitely made the extra work worth it.

Apparently, Shelby was thinking along the same lines. "I'll get the costume department to take care of it," she sighed. "If you want to look in on them later, I went with turquoise and black for _Vanilla Twilight._"

She blinked at him sympathetically before he could respond. "But I have to tell you, Kurt, and I'm not saying this to be mean, I'm saying it because I know you can handle hearing it: your piece probably isn't going to make the final cut. It's not a reflection on you or your abilities—I wouldn't be investing this much time and energy in you if I didn't think you were capable of impressing a panel. But I have to decide what's best for the team, which means putting forward our most visually and musically impressive numbers."

She watched Kurt with steady eyes. "I hope you can understand my reasoning," she finished, not unkindly.

It was nothing Kurt hadn't already heard when Shelby first gave him the solo. Even though it was expected, however, Kurt still felt his heart sinking. Without consciously realizing it, he had hung on to the chance that maybe Shelby would change her mind, that his hard work and talent might sway her decision. He obviously should have known better—Shelby was nothing if not pragmatic, and she never said anything that she didn't mean.

Which meant, at least, that she genuinely thought he was talented and capable, and able to handle rejection gracefully. The least he could do was prove her right, particularly if he wanted another chance at a competition solo down the line. "I do understand," he responded calmly, keeping his expression disappointed-but-resigned (a skill drilled into him by Jesse, who assured him that he'd "_have to deal with hundreds of rejections over the course of your life, Kurt, so you'd better train yourself to take them now"_).

He offered Shelby a small, sad smile. "Thank you for telling me in private, instead of in front of the team," he added. "I appreciate the consideration."

Shelby studied him quietly for a few moments. "That was extraordinarily classy for someone your age," she told him seriously, "particularly given how early in the morning it is right now. Keep that in your repertoire."

* * *

><p>Kurt's meeting with Shelby, although helpful overall, had ended on an ambiguous note, and his day only went downhill from there. It had started raining lightly over the course of the morning, but that didn't stop some brainless meathead from pulling the fire alarm during 6th period. Kurt obviously hadn't been carrying his umbrella (it was sitting uselessly on the floor of his Navigator), and was damp and irritated by the time he was allowed back into the school, with only ten minutes left to get through the lunch line and finish eating before the bell rang.<p>

Nothing disastrous happened in his next two classes, but Coach Walker had him running gymnastics drills during gym—an activity he normally enjoyed, but which always thoroughly exhausted him. Added to the fact that he was already tired from waking up so early, and Kurt was in rough shape going into that afternoon's rehearsal.

That afternoon's _dress _rehearsal, which meant he'd be lucky to make it out without getting skewered by a stiletto. It was possible the universe was conspiring against him in order to ensure his abject misery.

Just as he was pulling his shirt back over his head in the locker room, seconds after the final bell, Kurt's phone went off in his bag. He frowned, closing his locker and spinning the combination lock distractedly—he was certain he had turned his phone off that morning, like he always did.

Apparently not—Jesse's name (and headshot) flashed across the screen.

Kurt answered, skipping the usual pleasantries. "Has anyone ever told you that you have all the makings of an excellent stalker?" he asked dryly. "Were you sitting there, waiting until exactly 2:28, in order to call me?"

Jesse's laugh was quiet, but real. "That would require an attention to the details of your life that I'm simply not interested in," he replied easily. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps classes at McKinley finish at the same time as those at Carmel?"

"Do they?" Kurt asked, tilting his head to the side in order to hold the phone in place between his chin and shoulder.

"No," Jesse admitted shamelessly, as Kurt quickly retied the laces on his left boot. "School ends in ten minutes, and Glee club doesn't start for another fifteen. I just happened to be bored at exactly the right time, apparently."

Kurt scoffed lightly. "Here's a thought," he suggested feistily, "why not try going to class? I hear they specifically pay educators to keep you academically entertained."

On the other end, Jesse sighed. "I've gone to more classes in the last few months than in the rest of my high school career combined," he complained. "I can't wait until I graduate—I'll never be stuck in a classroom that I'm not being paid to make an appearance in again."

Kurt briefly considered pointing out that UCLA might have a slight problem with that, but decided against it—it wasn't worth it. "I'm heading to rehearsal," he said instead, grabbing his phone again and throwing his bag over his right shoulder. "What do you need?"

"To move our rehearsal from tonight to tomorrow night," Jesse answered promptly. "Rachel's Two Gay Dads invited me over for dinner, and I try to accept their invitations approximately 40% of the time in order to stay in their good graces."

Again, Kurt decided not to go there. "Sure," he agreed, pushing the locker room door open and slipping out into the noisy, crowded hall. "8:30 tomorrow, then?"

Jesse made a noise of surprise. "That's all? No complaining, or arguing, or protests that your schedule isn't subject to the demands of my many, various whims?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "I've been up since four in the morning," he informed Jesse darkly. "I had to meet with Shelby about my Academy application. Trust me, the sooner I can go to bed today, the better."

Even without seeing him, Kurt could picture the sudden, calculated attentiveness on Jesse's face. "Interesting," he mused. "Did she just tell you which songs to sing for your audition, or is she coaching your image, too?" When Kurt answered that it was the latter, he hummed his approval. "This is good, Kurt," he assured him. "Not as soon as it happened for me, of course, but the fact that Shelby's taking an interest in you while you're still an underclassman is a very good sign.

"Listen," he continued, his voice suddenly a little more serious than it had been, "you do whatever she says, Kurt. Shelby is the best in the country at what she does. She knows what she's doing, and following her advice—even if you don't always like it—can open up a lot of doors for you. Trust me."

It was the first time since Jesse's transfer that he had any real, personalized advice to offer, and Kurt found that he had missed it, a little. "It's not that I don't like it," he countered slowly, thinking back over his earlier meeting, before the costume delivery had interrupted everything. "It's just—I'm a sophomore in high school," he explained. "Who cares about my political opinions, or who my friends are? Why is she telling me this _now_?"

Jesse sighed. "Kurt," he said patiently, "that's not the point; those are just details. It's about what your life looks like from the outside, how people are going to perceive you as a whole. Which, luckily for you, won't take a whole lot of reimaging—except for the whole single-parent thing, and dating Blaine, your life is exceptionally boring. You'll be gorgeously malleable later on, if you keep it up."

Kurt stopped walking, a frown on his face. "Wait, hold on," he interrupted icily, before Jesse could continue rambling. "What do you mean, 'except for dating Blaine'? What about me dating him?"

Jesse's voice was the very picture of innocence when he answered. "If Shelby didn't say anything, then you seeing him must not be a problem," he reasoned, "and I won't say anything either."

Kurt wasn't reassured. "No, stop it," he insisted, making his way through the throng of students until he was out of the way, back pressed up against a random locker. "You think that my being gay is going to be a problem, really? Jesse, this is _musical theatre_."

"Of course not," Jesse interrupted. "Kurt, when have I ever given you the impression that I have a problem with your sexuality?"

"Then it's Blaine," Kurt concluded, stomach churning. "You think he's bad for my image."

There was a delicate pause. "I never said that," Jesse protested finally. "You're obviously free to see anyone you want; you've made that perfectly clear."

Kurt felt sick. "I am, and I will," he argued sharply. "I don't care. I—what kind of—who _does _something like that, breaks up with someone they love because of what other people, what _strangers,_ might possibly think?"

When Jesse spoke again, his tone was clipped and even. "I didn't say anything against Blaine," he reminded Kurt. "I like him. In fact, have you considered the possibility that _you _might be dragging _him_ down, instead of the other way around?"

Kurt ripped the phone away from his ear violently, furiously ending the call.

Jesse did not call him back.

* * *

><p>Kurt's bad mood wasn't helped by rehearsal, either. The first round of costumes—magenta shirts and faux-leather pants for the boys, pink and black dresses with spiky heels for the girls—looked fine and fit well, but hadn't been washed yet, retaining such a heavy, heady vinegar smell that Kurt was afraid he might puke on the stage. And, while most of the girls knew better than to complain about their shoes, Kurt's dire premonition turned out to be fairly accurate, and it was only his hyper-vigilant attention and fast reflexes that kept him from losing a toe.<p>

When rehearsal finally ended, Kurt couldn't have been more ready for it. Shelby hadn't allowed them any breaks that day, afraid that someone might spill their drink and stain a costume, rendering the whole batch unreturnable before she decided whether or not they were keeping them. She did let them go half an hour early to make up for it, but the dehydration was beginning to set in anyway, and 5:30 found Kurt backstage, quickly stripping down to his t-shirt and boxers and draining half a bottle of water as rapidly as he could swallow.

Breathing heavily and capping the bottle (he'd kicked more than one post-rehearsal drink over by accident before, and it was a nightmare to clean up with so many people trampling around backstage), he fished the black pants he'd been wearing that day out of his duffle bag, cringing slightly as the closefitting fabric stuck to his sweaty legs on the way up. His new shirt wasn't much better, immediately clinging to his back and heating up under his arms, and he quickly applied another layer of deodorant before the situation became disgustingly unmanageable.

Kurt loved show choir, he really did. But there were definitely days that he wished he had chosen a less physically appalling activity, like competition piano, or conversational French.

Blaine's bag was on the floor next to Kurt's, open but abandoned, with an empty space where Kurt had seen him tuck his clothing earlier. Kurt looked around for him, not terribly concerned when he didn't spot him immediately—most of the girls opted to change in the dressing room down the back hall (well aware of the two or three sets of perving eyes among the otherwise reasonably respectful set), which meant that nearly everyone backstage was dressed identically, if dressed at all.

After a minute of searching with no luck, however, Kurt frowned. Blaine's dress shoes were dropped haphazardly on the ground beside the rest of his belongings, and Kurt couldn't imagine where he could have gone without footwear—even the freshmen knew by their second rehearsal not to use the backstage bathrooms without at least a pair of dance shoes for protection, not if they wanted to avoid glitter and/or hepatitis. Kneeling back on the ground, Kurt dug his cellphone out of his bag (no calls or messages from Jesse), turned the sound back on, and began scrolling through his contacts.

Only to be stopped by the sight of a familiar pair of bare feet nudging at his bag in front of him. Kurt looked up—Blaine was smiling down at him, his costume shirt in one hand and his t-shirt and jeans in the other. "Who are you calling?" he asked with a grin, dropping his magenta button-down on top of his duffle bag and snagging Kurt's bottle of water, taking a grateful gulp.

Kurt immediately reached out, straightening and folding Blaine's shirt neatly before it had the chance to wrinkle. "You," he answered easily, not looking up from his work. "I couldn't find you, but I didn't think you'd leave without me. Or your car keys."

Blaine's costume pants dropped next to Kurt in a heap, and Kurt felt himself blushing lightly as he folded them with the same precision he'd shown the shirt. "I was out in the hall," Blaine explained, his voice slightly muffled—Kurt guessed he was probably swapping his sweat-soaked t-shirt for the fresh one, but forced himself not to look up for confirmation. Just because he was allowed to look, didn't mean it was polite to stare shamelessly, and he knew himself well enough to know how _that_ would end. "I was—I can do that, Kurt, you don't have to clean up after me."

Kurt piled Blaine's folded costume on top of his own. "It's fine, I've got it," he dismissed, waving off Blaine's protests. "I'm keeping my skills sharp in case Broadway falls through. Waiting tables is too cliché; I'd rather get a job at the Mothership, folding shirts.

"Macy's," he clarified, when he finally looked up at Blaine and saw his forehead wrinkled in confusion. He stood up with a sigh, his joints cracking slightly. "Do you mind if we stop at my house before going out tonight, so that I can shower?" he asked apologetically. "I honestly think this is the grossest I've felt since New Year's, and I'm not sure the Lima Bean will even let me in, if I show up smelling like this."

Blaine's eyes grew wide momentarily, and he bit his lower lip, sticking his hands sheepishly in his pockets. "Kurt, I'm sorry," he offered sadly, "I forgot we were going to go out, and I just told Giselle that we could move our next practice from tomorrow to today. She's got some emergency dental appointment after rehearsal tomorrow that's going to keep her from singing for a few days, so tonight's the only chance we'll get to practice until at least the weekend."

Kurt's disappointment must have shown on his face, because Blaine looked guilty as he reached forward, gently gripping Kurt's biceps with his warm hands. "I'm an idiot, I didn't even think about my schedule before I said yes," he admitted, mouth twisting self-deprecatingly. "Is it okay if we go to the Lima Bean tomorrow? We could even do a real dinner somewhere else instead, if you want."

The rational side of Kurt knew that it really had just been an honest mistake, and that it wasn't necessarily symptomatic of something larger that Blaine had forgotten their plans. It also knew that less than twelve hours ago, Shelby had praised his ability to accept unpleasant news with grace and character.

Unfortunately, that side of Kurt was as worn down and crabby as the rest of him. "I guess," he managed, blinking sadly down at his shoes and willing himself not to get visibly worked up, not over something so small, and _especially _not in front of his remaining teammates, who could taste emotional distress in the air like sharks could sense blood in the water.

It was a pitiful attempt at sounding agreeable, and it wasn't fooling Blaine, either. "Hey," he said softly, giving Kurt a gentle shake. "What's wrong? Is it just this, or is—"

"No, it's fine," Kurt cut him off, tiredness creeping into his voice as he closed his eyes. "It's not you. I just had a really long, bad day, and I wanted to be with you, that's all."

Blaine's thumb stroked the bare skin of Kurt's arm. "I know, and I'm sorry," he apologized again, sounding sincere. "We spent almost the whole weekend together, though, and we'll see each other again tomorrow, right? And have dinner."

It should have been enough, and Kurt knew that continuing to act upset, even if he still _felt _upset, would be unreasonable of him. Even if rehearsal ran late the next day, he'd still have time to spend with Blaine before Jesse came over. And assuming he could get Jesse to leave at a decent hour, he should be able to finish his homework by 1:30am, 2:00 at the latest. That wasn't horrible. "Okay," he agreed with a slight nod, sounding more convincing and sure of himself than the last time.

Apparently, though, it still wasn't good enough for Blaine, who was watching him warily when Kurt opened his eyes. "Are you sure nothing else is wrong?" he asked, before Kurt could ask him why he was staring. "You're usually not like this."

Kurt raised an eyebrow, not impressed. "Not like what?" he asked, only keeping the defensiveness out of his tone through sheer force of will—Blaine probably didn't realize how the question had come across to Kurt, and would probably be able to soften it somewhat with an explanation.

Wishful thinking. "I don't know," Blaine floundered, letting go of Kurt's arms and brushing his hair out of his face. "We've had to work around our rehearsal schedules before, and you've never gotten upset about it like this. And it's not like you haven't done the same thing."

That wasn't entirely accurate. Kurt's schedule _was_ more complicated than Blaine's, certainly, and they had been forced to move their plans around because of that before. Never at the last minute, though, and Kurt had _always _made a point of asking Blaine first, unless it was something involving his dad.

Kurt, however, was too annoyed to point that out in a non-accusatory tone. "I said it was fine, Blaine," he sighed, exasperated. "What else do you want me to say? Go to rehearsal, hang out with the Harpy, whatever. I'll see you tomorrow, like you said."

Blaine gestured at him erratically. "That's exactly what I mean," he protested. "You're usually not _mean _like this, Kurt. Not about anything _real, _like my friends. Even the other day, when—"

"Wait," Kurt interrupted, before he could stop himself, "Giselle's your _friend_ now?"

Whatever Blaine had been saying before Kurt cut him off went unfinished. "It's not like I have a whole lot of others," he pointed out, glancing around and lowering his voice. Kurt looked—the people nearest them were beginning to stare, but looked away quickly at the sight of Kurt's unamused glare.

"Why are you so nasty about Giselle?" Blaine pressed, not giving Kurt the chance to reply to his observation. "She never says anything bad about you, but you never have anything nice to say about her, and it's so not like you. I know you said she was horrible last year, but she's been nothing but pleasant since I met her, and I just—"

He paused, looking at Kurt, who waited wordlessly for him to continue.

Blaine closed his eyes, breathing out slowly. "I want to think better of you than this," he admitted, quietly enough that Kurt was the only one who could have possibly heard him.

Blaine's statement was like a physical blow to the gut, knocking the wind out of Kurt. He couldn't respond to it, couldn't process it mentally beyond the fact that what Blaine had said had _hurt_, badly, and that he had been completely unprepared for it. He stood frozen, unable to do or say anything in return.

Blaine, at least, seemed to recognize that his barb had landed, and his dark, angry expression was melting into something softer, more regretful. "Just, please," he said quietly, reaching out for Kurt again, "please tell me if you have a reason for acting like this."

It wasn't what Kurt wanted to hear, but it was enough to shock him out of his stupor. Ripping his hand from Blaine's grasp, he picked up his bags from the ground, slinging them over his shoulder. "These go on the folding table," he told Blaine tonelessly, handing him the small pile of their vibrant costumes and yanking a zip-up sweatshirt out of his duffle bag. "I have to go."

He turned around quickly, ignoring the surprised look on Blaine's face. He walked forward, blinking back tears as he strode across the stage and out the back door, sure that people were watching him now but pointedly not looking to confirm it as he jammed an arm through the sleeve of his sweatshirt with clumsy, shaking hands. Wanting to get to his car as soon as he could without actually running, he struggled to pull the fabric around his back and into place while speeding up and carrying both of his bags and trying not to burst into tears, even if he didn't entirely understand _why _he was so upset, and—

He heard the sound of the auditorium door swinging open behind him, followed by rapid footsteps. "Kurt, please," Blaine called after him, voice echoing in the empty hallway, which was abandoned but for the chattering and laughter coming from behind the closed doors of the dressing room.

Kurt paused, turning slightly.

Blaine was out of breath from hurrying after him, carrying his bag in one hand and his shoes in the other. "Don't do this," he pleaded, begging Kurt with his eyes.

His body was trembling like Kurt's, his arms prickling with goosebumps, and Kurt realized in the back of his mind that it had been a while since he had seen Blaine look so small.

He didn't want to hurt Blaine the way that Blaine had hurt him, he knew that. But he wasn't in any shape to continue their conversation, or even start a new one. "I love you," he promised, his tone sounding drained and empty even to him. "Please don't follow me right now."

This time, he waited for Blaine's shaky nod before turning around and continuing the rest of the way down the hall, roughly pushing open the double doors that led out into the parking lot.

This time, he didn't bother trying to blink back his tears.

* * *

><p>Knowing that his dad wouldn't be expecting him home until at least 6:30 (and that he'd take one look at Kurt's red-rimmed eyes and pale complexion and instantly know that Kurt was lying when he said that nothing was wrong), Kurt sat in the grocery store parking lot for over half an hour, listening to song after song on the radio as he thought about his math homework and laundry schedule and whether or not his subscription to Vogue was about to run out, and if he had even finished reading the last issue, since right before falling asleep seemed to be the only time he had to himself these days. Anything but Vocal Adrenaline, and that stupid, infuriating, beautiful boy that he was horribly in love with, who didn't love him back enough to tell his parents about them, or choose him over his awful Evaluations partner, or hold him safe and close when Kurt felt like everything inside of him was flying apart, and he needed someone to keep him together.<p>

Before driving home, he went inside and bought three containers of Crystal Light and a box of whole grain waffles. If he was going to lie to his dad about being fine and get away with it, it couldn't hurt to at least make sure he could fool Dottie, first.

* * *

><p>Kurt hated everyone and everything, including (but not limited to) Blaine, his dad, butter, chocolate cake, Bruce Bogtrotter, Roald Dahl, Valentine's Day, and Blaine and his dad again.<p>

After a dinner of baked ziti (he'd planned to make it for dinner the next night, but switched his schedule around after realizing that he couldn't have cheese right before Jesse came over to sing, not if he wanted his vocal chords to function properly), Burt had been digging around in the refrigerator for something to eat for dessert, and had discovered the large slice of chocolate cake left over from the day before, when Blaine had brought over a dessert box from Angelina's and a bouquet of Gerber daisies for Valentine's Day. The only way to keep Burt from eating it all was to cut an acceptably-sized sliver for him and claim he was going to eat the rest of it, which he then had to follow through on—if he put it back in the fridge, Burt would just eat more of it the next day, and he couldn't just throw it out or scrape it into the garbage disposal, he just _couldn't_.

And yet, slumped over his plate at the kitchen table, the sounds of his dad's basketball game streaming in from the living room, all Kurt could think about was that disgusting scene in _Matilda _where that boy had been forced to eat the Trunchbull's entire enormous chocolate cake , and how he himself hadn't touched a piece for months after that, and his mother had given up trying to coax him into it and had made him a fruit tart for his birthday party that year, and how the whole thing was making him feel vaguely ill, but despite everything, he couldn't throw away Blaine's _stupid _chocolate cake, even if he _really wanted to._

Funnily enough, none of that had been a problem the day before.

The game went to a commercial, and Kurt could hear Burt pushing himself up from his chair and coming toward the kitchen. Kurt closed his eyes with dread—he'd only managed to eat two bites of his cake, and when his dad saw that he wasn't eating it, he was going to know something was up with Kurt. Maybe he should just crack and give Burt the cake, claiming that he'd changed his mind; Burt would be too happy about getting the contraband to ask too many questions, and—

The doorbell rang just as Burt stepped into the kitchen. Without pausing, Burt continued walking across the room and toward the front hall to answer it, not sparing a glance at Kurt, who let out a sigh of relief.

His gratitude was short-lived, however, when he realized that there were precious few people who would be visiting the house at 9:30 on a school night, and that he wasn't sure he wanted to talk to any of them. He sighed—with any luck, the visitor would be one of his dad's friends, coming over to catch the second half of the game.

"Kurt, Blaine's here!" Burt called from the front hallway, a few seconds later.

Kurt swallowed. Or not. "Okay," he called back, not getting up from the table.

Moments later, Burt walked back into the kitchen, followed by a slightly nervous-looking Blaine. "Maybe you'll have better luck getting Kurt to share," Burt mentioned offhandedly, opening the refrigerator and pulling out another soda. "I'm half the reason Kurt's even alive; you think he'd be a little more willing to give his old man some chocolate cake."

Kurt felt too weary to even roll his eyes. "You shouldn't have caffeine this late at night," he pointed out automatically, staring absently at the fork in his hand as it dangled uselessly above his plate.

Burt scoffed. "Which one of us is the parent in this house, again?" he wondered out loud.

In the living room, the game was starting again, and Burt glanced at the doorway quickly before turning back to Kurt and Blaine. "I'm in there if you need me; behave," he warned, and beat a hasty retreat back to the television—leaving Blaine standing awkwardly by the counter, his hands stuffed into his pockets.

Kurt normally would have taken pity on him and broken the silence, but he had no idea what to say. His anger had mostly dissipated, but traces of it still remained, and he wasn't sure if he should be apologizing, or waiting for an apology first. After a minute, however, when Blaine still looked like he was struggling to come up with something to say—he clearly didn't suffer from Kurt's crippling need to plan important conversations in advance—Kurt made an effort anyway. "How was rehearsal?" he asked neutrally, glancing up at Blaine to make sure the other boy didn't interpret the comment as Kurt trying to restart their argument.

Luckily Blaine didn't, and he took a hesitant step forward. "It was fine," he answered quietly, much more subdued than he had been before.

Kurt bit his lip, then nodded. "Good," he replied uncomfortably, not really wanting to inquire further on the topic.

Blaine didn't seem to want him to either, apparently. He gestured softly at Kurt's plate. "How's the cake? Is it still good today?" he asked shyly, taking another step toward Kurt.

Kurt shoved the plate halfway across the table, recognizing the sudden solution to his earlier problem. "Have it," he offered, quickly standing up and grabbing a second fork from the cutlery drawer.

Blaine stepped back slightly, putting his hands up defensively. "I couldn't, Kurt, it's yours," he protested gently, looking back and forth between Kurt and the cake.

Kurt didn't budge, continuing to hold out the fork. "It's ours," he reminded Blaine.

After a moment or so, Blaine took the utensil and sat down at the table. "I'll have a few bites," he agreed, "as long as you eat the rest."

Kurt felt a flash of resentment. "Did you come over here to force me to eat dessert?" he asked dryly, plunking back down in his seat with more force than was strictly necessary.

His annoyance faded, however, when Blaine looked back up at him with some of the saddest eyes Kurt had ever seen. "Why are you fighting with me?" he asked Kurt miserably, reaching across the table, but stopping just short of taking Kurt's hand.

Kurt bit the inside of his cheek sharply. "I don't know," he admitted truthfully, tentatively unfurling his clenched hand. His fingertips brushed softly against Blaine's skin.

"I'm not—I don't want to be," he explained. "I didn't want that before either, not really. I'm just…I've been so stressed out, and I have a lot to think about—today, especially, I was under so much pressure from every single angle, and I just really needed you."

He paused, blinking rapidly. "And it hurt when you weren't there," he admitted, "even if you didn't know."

Slowly, Blaine turned his wrist on the table, resting his hand lightly on Kurt's. "I feel like I should have, though," he offered quietly, his eyes downcast and watching their interlacing fingers. "You were just so snappish with me, and—I don't know. I don't know what I thought." He shrugged uncertainly. "It was like, I thought I was the one with anger issues, and suddenly you were mad and I couldn't figure out why, even though there was obviously more to it than what I was seeing." He let out a sigh, tracing Kurt's fingers with his own. "At first I was upset, but it's not like you've had it any easier, dealing with me," he acknowledged ruefully.

"Did you call Dalton today?" Kurt asked, Blaine's admission reminding him of the question he'd wanted to ask him on their canceled date.

Blaine nodded eagerly, seemingly gratified by the tangent. "Yeah, right after school," he answered. "They have weekend classes that are open to anyone, but they run in 12-week blocks, and the next session doesn't start until the end of March."

"That's only a little over a month," Kurt reasoned, resting his hand more easily in Blaine's now that the conversation was less fraught with tension. "Are you going to sign up?"

Blaine nodded again. "I think so," he replied, a small smile on his face. "I'd have to clear it with Mom and Dad first, though; there are equipment fees, and one of them has to sign a waiver, since the whole sport is basically people trying to stab each other with sharp objects."

Kurt smiled back—a little sadly, but genuinely. "I'll bet they'd like it," he offered softly, squeezing Blaine's fingers.

Blaine looked up from their hands. "Yeah," he answered, just as gently. "I think so, too."

They sat there quietly, the soft humming of the refrigerator and the sound of the television in the other room the only background noise.

Finally, Blaine shifted forward in his chair. "Will you tell me why you hate Giselle so much?" he wanted to know, looking at Kurt with careful, imploring eyes. "I'm not saying that I think you're wrong to dislike her, and I promise not to get mad again, okay? I just really want to understand what it is about _her_, specifically, that makes you so upset."

Kurt had known that the question was going to come up sooner or later; Blaine was too perceptive _not _to notice his special contempt for Giselle. Still, that didn't mean that he was necessarily ready to explain. "I'm afraid you won't believe me," he confessed, looking pointedly back down at the table. "I almost can't believe it, sometimes—it sounds like something out of a bad high school drama."

When he looked back up, Blaine was blinking at him with concern. "What happened?" he pressed gently, reaching forward with his other hand so that both of his were cradling Kurt's.

Kurt swallowed, closing his eyes briefly. "Okay," he murmured, taking a deep breath.

He slowly let it back out.

"Do you remember how I told you that I was benched from Vocal Adrenaline for over a month last year?" he asked hoarsely, smiling grimly when Blaine nodded, curious. "Well, that was true," he continued, "but it's not quite the whole story. This was my first Sectionals, too—I had to sing from backstage last year because Giselle sprained my ankle a week before the competition."

Blaine sat up sharply in his seat, looking alarmed.

"I know," Kurt insisted, before he could say anything. "It sounds insane, and maybe she didn't know exactly how badly I was going to be hurt when I hit the floor. But she winked at me, right before tripping me on purpose during a dress rehearsal, and then was all teary and angelic the second I was on the ground. I couldn't even believe it at first; I thought I must have been seeing things. But I knew that I wasn't, and that it really happened—it was too convenient, and Giselle's too good a dancer to make that big a mistake."

Blaine opened his mouth, attempting to respond, but nothing came out at first. "What about Shelby," he asked finally, "didn't she do anything? I thought you told me that she always knows who's responsible for things like that."

"When it has to do with vocals, yes," Kurt countered, "but not always in dance. Besides, she wasn't there when it happened—it was a Dakota Stanley rehearsal, and he wouldn't have batted an eye if Giselle chopped off my foot with a machete. He just yelled at me to get off of his stage if I wasn't going to suck it up and dance through the pain. Daniel—he was the dance captain last year—and Ben ended up carrying me to the nurse's office, and she called my dad to have him pick me up and drive me to the hospital."

Blaine's forehead was wrinkled. "Didn't you tell anyone what happened?" he wanted to know. "If it—I thought Carmel was a lot stricter about that sort of thing."

Kurt shrugged uselessly. "They usually are," he admitted. "But it was her word against mine, and I knew it wouldn't do any good. And I didn't want Dad to find out—he'd gone to so much trouble to get me into a school where I'd be safe and accepted. I was afraid if he knew, he'd pull me out of school, or feel like he had to watch everything I did to make sure that I was okay. And I knew it wasn't going to happen again; Giselle had made her point, and I was able to get even with her without her realizing it was me, so."

It was true. Three days after Giselle's stunt, when Kurt eavesdropped on her conversation at lunch and overheard her shopping plans for their weekly rehearsal-free day, he had convinced his dad to give him a ride to the mall and an advance on his allowance, citing the need for pants and some shoes that worked with his new walking cast. By the time Giselle had exited the mall and discovered that her car wouldn't start (thanks to some careful reorganizing of the engine that even a seasoned mechanic wouldn't have spotted), Kurt was long gone, a small grease stain on his sleeve and his shopping spoils in tow.

Blaine shook his head slowly, sitting back in his chair. "That's…wow," he said quietly. "That _is _insane."

Kurt sighed. "I know, it sounds crazy," he agreed. "But it really did happen, I promise."

Blaine's eyes widened, and his fingers tightened around Kurt's. "That's not what I meant," he insisted gently. "If you say that that's what happened, then I believe you."

Burt walked into the kitchen again, this time dropping his plate into the dishwasher and pouring himself a glass of water. He asked Blaine who he was rooting for in another big game that was upcoming, and Blaine smiled at Kurt regretfully before getting drawn into a sports conversation with Burt, which lasted right up until the commercial break ended.

Kurt, however, couldn't find it in himself to be annoyed that his dad had come in when he had. Because, watching Blaine animatedly discuss the various merits of some team he couldn't care less about, all Kurt could think about was the conflicted expression in Blaine's eyes when he had told Kurt that he believed him about Giselle.

_No, _he thought sadly, _you don't. _

_You want to, but you don't. _


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22/30-ish. Here there be important plot points.

You're here! So remember that time when 'Theatricality' and 'Funk' were aired out of order, and things occasionally contradicted themselves from one episode to the next? That's made consistency a whole lot of fun on this end ;) For Reasons, I'm going to be working from the official air dates and doing my best to make things flow—so if I suddenly start ignoring the Glee calendar as stated on the show, it's because I don't have a Timeturner.

Onward and upward, friends!:

* * *

><p>It had been nearly a week since The Day That Kurt Had Hated Everyone, and the majority of the world was back in Kurt's kindly ambivalent graces. Once he and Blaine had talked, and he had gotten some much-needed sleep, it had been easier for Kurt to objectively recognize that <em>perhaps<em> his bad mood had contributed to his perception of certain events, and that, while a number of things _had_ gone wrong on that particular Monday, it didn't mean that everyone he knew had joined forces to drive him completely insane.

Most of the people he knew weren't _nearly _well-organized enough to pull that off, after all.

After thinking about Blaine and Giselle carefully, Kurt had decided to ignore Blaine's less-than-earnest reaction to his revelation about Giselle. While he was still convinced that Blaine probably didn't believe him (and really, Kurt couldn't completely blame him for that—even without the salient details that Kurt had purposely omitted, the story sounded vaguely ridiculous), there was always the possibility that he had misinterpreted Blaine's expression, and that Blaine had been telling the truth when he said that he trusted Kurt's version of events. And even if he was right, and Blaine thought he was overreacting, harping on the issue definitely wasn't going to change things. At least Blaine had had the decency to pretend, in order to spare Kurt's feelings.

It was that thought that Kurt often returned to, every time he began to worry or doubts began to creep in.

Of course, it probably helped that Giselle's Dental Whatever had commenced as scheduled, freeing up more of Blaine's time that he then spent with Kurt. They'd gone out to dinner on Tuesday as planned, and were both willing to admit that neither one of them had handled the situation the day before especially well, and that they were sorry for letting it escalate. The post-it notes in History made a brief, clandestine return, and, while their day off from VA rehearsals on Thursday was cut short by Blaine's therapy, they still had a fun afternoon at the community center (Kurt had only lasted about a mile on the indoor track before he was completely bored out of his mind, but was perfectly content to show off on one of the mats nearby, practicing his yoga positions while ogling an increasingly sweaty and disheveled Blaine).

On Saturday, Kurt had had a shift at the garage, and had encouraged Blaine to go observe a fencing class at Dalton Academy (he was being extra vigilant about not referring to it as 'Douchebag Academy', even in his own head) and see some of his friends in Westerville. Sunday, though, he only had to spend a few hours on a couple of undercarriage jobs before showering and heading to Blaine's house, which was parent-free for at least a few hours (Blaine's Grandma had gotten them gift certificates for a local vineyard's monthly wine tasting event, to which Blaine was obviously not invited). Blaine was refreshed and happy to see him after their day apart—talking on the phone didn't count—and Kurt was happy to see Blaine happy, and their reasonably pure intentions of finishing Blaine's math homework and practicing for Kurt's audition had predictably been abandoned in favor of making out on Blaine's bed, clothes on but hands deliciously roaming.

"You're never allowed to stretch like that in public again," Blaine had warned with a moan, when Kurt had mentioned between kisses that maybe running could be his 'outlet', and Kurt's outlet could be watching Blaine run. "I spent so much time looking at you that I nearly crashed into the wall."

At some point, Kurt ended up on his back, sprawled bonelessly across Blaine's bed with Blaine's hand and head resting on his stomach. His beautiful eyes were trained on Kurt's face, a glittering softness to them that made Kurt's heart melt a little.

"Sometimes I can't believe you're even real," Blaine confessed, looking down briefly before peeking back up at Kurt through his long eyelashes. "I have to look at your picture on my phone or hear your voice to make sure that you actually exist, that my brain didn't just make you up."

Kurt smiled sleepily, preening under the compliment. "Well. If you ever find out that your brain is responsible for my creation," he replied lazily, stretching a bit, "will you remind it that I'm just about due for a growth spurt? Nothing ridiculous, but I'd love it if I were a few inches taller, and could get rid of the rest of my baby fat for good."

"You have no baby fat," Blaine retorted, his breath warm and light on Kurt's abs, "and the rest of us already feel inadequate around you. Get any better looking, and I'll start crying myself to sleep out of jealousy and shame."

Kurt shoved Blaine's shoulder gently, closing his eyes. "Oh, stop it; you're gorgeous," he promised with a sigh.

When Blaine didn't answer, Kurt opened his eyes, frowning slightly. "Blaine?" he asked, a little worried—Blaine was watching him sadly, and his hand had gone unnaturally still on Kurt's stomach. "What is it?"

Blaine let out a shuddering breath, and Kurt wasn't sure at first if he was going to answer or not. After a minute, however, Blaine reached up with his free hand, running his thumb gently over Kurt's collarbone. "I wasn't really kidding," he admitted with a small, self-deprecating smile. "I know we fight and have misunderstandings sometimes, and that neither one of us is perfect. But—who you are, your looks and talents and mind and heart and everything. I was such a mess when I left Aquinas, and then you came into my life, and you were everything I needed, even the things I didn't know I needed yet. I keep telling Dr. Ramirez that even though I know I have good qualities and I try to be a good boyfriend, and I really am trying, Kurt, I think I'm always going to feel like I'm coming up short, next to you."

That was a ridiculous thought, and Kurt resisted the temptation to make a height joke in order to tell him so. "And Dr. Ramirez must have told you that you were wrong, right?" he added, running his fingernails down Blaine's arm the way he knew Blaine liked.

Blaine's body relaxed under the ministrations. "She never really says that I'm 'wrong' about things," he clarified, closing his eyes as Kurt's fingers reached his shoulder. "We just have to 'look at the statement objectively'. Sometimes it works; this time it didn't, really."

Kurt nodded, even though Blaine couldn't see him. "Did she tell you to talk to me about it?" he guessed, secretly wishing—not for the first time—that there was some way for him to meet Blaine's therapist, whose opinions obviously held a lot of sway with Blaine.

Blaine, who was frowning slightly. "She didn't, actually," he answered, his eyes blinking back open. "I don't always know what I'm supposed to be doing; therapy can be really confusing."

He sighed, his breath rippling Kurt's shirt. "Like, I've been practicing asking for the things that I want or need," he continued. "But at the same time, she said on Thursday that she's worried that I'm 'relying too much on extrinsic sources of self-esteem'."

Kurt didn't snort, because _please_, but it was a close thing. "What does that even _mean_?" he scoffed, and was rewarded with Blaine's rich laugh.

"I don't _know_!" Blaine cried dramatically. "I guess she's saying that I care too much about what other people think about me, instead of caring what _I _think about me."

Kurt frowned, puzzled. "Doesn't everyone?" he pointed out.

Blaine shrugged. "Probably," he agreed, "but I think we're not supposed to."

Kurt's hand had reached Blaine's back, and he scratched light, soothing circles into the skin between his shoulderblades. "Maybe not," he allowed, "but I don't really think that there's any other way. I mean, a big part of my self-esteem is that I'm a great singer and dancer—it's something that I value and like about myself, right? But how would I even _know_ I was any good if other people didn't tell me that I was? If other people didn't validate me and I still thought I was good, it wouldn't make me self-reliant; it would make me delusional."

Blaine hummed, nodding seriously. "I totally see your point," he agreed solemnly. "Remind me, where did you get your PhD? I'd love to know where to credit your fascinating insights."

Kurt cried out indignantly, but before he could retaliate, Blaine had climbed up his body and his teeth were scraping lightly down his throat, and all other thoughts were soon forgotten.

* * *

><p>Despite his misgivings, life was easier with Blaine. Or at least, Kurt found, life was easier in general when he wasn't fighting with Blaine:<p>

Costume rehearsals continued for Vocal Adrenaline, with various degrees of success—two costumes were scrapped within a single rehearsal, deemed too unattractive or attention-pulling by Shelby, but Kurt was pleased to discover that the blue shirts she had chosen for his number had a wonderful shimmery quality to them that beautifully flattered his skin tone. Weirdly, rehearsals were more fun for Kurt now that he knew he wouldn't be featured at Regionals—rather than being disheartening, like he initially feared it would, the news had served to lessen the personal pressure on him, and he was able to follow Blaine's lead a little more and relax in between numbers, while still working hard onstage.

Both at regular rehearsals and at practices for Evaluations and his audition, the reduction in stress was having a positive effect on his voice. It was as if an invisible weight had been lifted off of his vocal chords, and his singing was light and unfettered in a way that he hadn't known he was capable of anymore. It was perfect timing on his body's part, and he knew that he wasn't the only one who was noticing—more than once, he caught Shelby or Blaine or Jesse staring at him as he sang, with varying degrees of pride or approval.

Things were better with Jesse as well, though they predictably hadn't talked through their fight the way that he and Blaine had done. Jesse had simply shown up at Kurt's house for their scheduled practice with vegan brownies in tow, smugly declaring that he and Rachel were stronger and more musically compatible than ever. Kurt, fresh off of his dinner with Blaine, had taken the gesture for what it was—Jesse voluntarily giving away baked goods that hadn't been poisoned, even weird-tasting vegan ones, was tantamount to a sincere apology in his world—and had let it go.

Even forces outside of his realm were working out in his favor: the weather was slowly warming up ahead of schedule, a computer glitch on someone's server somewhere resulted in him unexpectedly receiving Free Shipping! coupons for Amazon, which meant bulk groceries he actually _wanted_ for him and his dad, and the Postal Service website promised that his application had indeed reached the Academy, meaning that all he had to do was keep practicing and wait for his confirmation email, notifying him of his time slot during the Midwestern audition dates, which fell the weekend before Regionals this year.

Life was good.

* * *

><p>And then, very suddenly, life was confusing and complicated.<p>

It was the last Tuesday of the month, barely a week before Evaluations were set to begin, and Vocal Adrenaline was testing out their last batch of costumes—restricting, outlandish, retina-burning imitations of Lady Gaga-wear made of Chantilly lace and scratchy blonde wigs. The outfits were so ridiculously ill-suited for their purpose, with the face drapes covering both the mouth and nose (and the rather unfortunate addition for the girls that was, according to Ryleigh's heated whisper, "chafing like a motherfucker"), that Kurt couldn't imagine _what _Shelby had been thinking when she ordered them. They were by far the most impractical of the lot, would be impossible to get in and out of between numbers (even utilizing VA's famous 'staggered entrance' trick), and Kurt knew that unless Shelby had time to get a new costume set delivered and vetted, or planned on actually _using_ the gross orders of fabric she'd bought at all the local craft stores to discourage copycats, it would be the kiss of death for _Bad Romance_ as a contender at Regionals.

Which went a long way toward explaining why Shelby had been unusually on edge all day. Kurt had initially been disappointed when, after narrowing down his potential song choices for the Academy audition, Shelby had secured him three lunchtime appointments with Zach, promising to sit in on the last session and make any necessary corrections. Five minutes of inside intel from the music department groupies while he waited for Zach to arrive for lesson number one, however, was enough to change his attitude—reports of Shelby's weirdly erratic temper and uncharacteristic fits of moodiness were flying around, and everyone with a brain was staying out of her way for the time being.

He didn't have a choice at rehearsal, however: whatever was driving Shelby to act so weirdly hadn't been resolved by the time classes were over, and Kurt wasn't the only one to raise an eyebrow when she sent half of the team to the school gym, ordering them to work on their flexibility and coordination, if all they were good for in the auditorium was crashing into each other.

Or at least, he assumed he wasn't—he couldn't really see anyone else's eyes through his costume, let alone their eyebrows.

Shelby had temporarily scrapped their vocals, concentrating instead on perfecting their dancing now that everyone's visibility had been compromised. Kurt did his best to hit each movement with precision, trying not to wonder why Shelby hadn't just tossed the number or the costumes already, the way she normally would have done, or if whatever had her so distracted had anything to do with Jesse.

Or if Jesse would have told him, if it had.

Apparently though, he hadn't done a stellar job of paying attention, because out of nowhere, Shelby had stopped them and was giving them a heated lecture about theatricality, and Kurt knew he must have missed the sentence or two that explained what on earth she was talking about.

He was suddenly very grateful for the ridiculous red face drape that was hiding his bemused expression.

"Do I have to give a demonstration?" Shelby asked them, unimpressed. Kurt glanced around. If body language was anything to go on, he certainly wasn't the only one who didn't understand what Shelby was trying to say—or why she was saying it _now_—and after a few seconds of silence, they were peeling back their headpieces and filing down the stairs.

Sasha brushed past him and Blaine as they headed for their seats. "Spies in the back, of _course_," she muttered darkly, removing her wig entirely. "Why is it always _my _turn when we're wearing the stupid costumes? Security always makes fun of me."

Kurt gave her shoulder a sympathetic squeeze before she stalked out of the auditorium. _At least, _he thought, peeking back at the three distant figures as he sat down next to Blaine, _the spies were dumb enough to actually sit in the _seats._ She'll be back before Shelby hits the chorus._

* * *

><p>Sasha wasn't back, which was a shame—Kurt needed someone to exchange worried looks with.<p>

Shelby's voice was as beautiful as it always was, but both her song choice and her movement style, or 'theatricality' or whatever, were wildly different than her usual stage presence. And it didn't seem like too many other people were noticing—Blaine and the freshmen couldn't be expected to know any better, but the majority of the older students were smiling along, either enjoying the show or simply relieved not to be onstage themselves anymore, blithely ignoring the fact that something was clearly bothering Shelby enough to radically alter her performance.

As the song was winding down, Kurt desperately began trying to think of some larger meaning behind the piece besides the sudden onset of Shelby's midlife crisis, just in case Shelby began calling on random people, as she occasionally did, to make sure everyone understood her point.

And then it happened:

Rachel Berry was walking down the aisle of the auditorium, staring at Shelby with a trancelike look of longing.

Shit.

Before Kurt could figure out what he should be doing, or if he should be doing anything at all, Blaine turned to him, eyes curious. "Isn't that Jesse's girlfriend?" he asked in a whisper, before turning back toward Rachel without waiting for an answer.

Kurt's instincts kicked in before his brain could catch up with them, and his hand was covering Blaine's mouth before Blaine had finished inhaling deeply enough to call out to Rachel. Blaine looked at him, startled—an expression Kurt was certain was mirrored on his own face. He dropped his hand immediately, stroking Blaine's arm apologetically, and shook off the shock as best he could.

"Don't get her attention or tell anyone who she is, okay?" he breathed gently into Blaine's ear, pulling back so that Blaine could see how seriously he meant it. "I'll explain everything later, I promise."

Blaine looked at him searchingly for a moment. Kurt wasn't sure what it was that he was looking for, but he must have found it, because slowly, carefully, Blaine nodded at him.

The music was still playing as Rachel reached the front of the stage and said something to Shelby that nobody else could hear.

* * *

><p>Unexpectedly to everyone but Kurt, Shelby ended rehearsal shortly after Rachel's appearance, a stricken look on her face. While everyone around them gossiped in hushed tones about who the mystery girl could be—or buzzed with excitement over their suddenly-free afternoon—Kurt and Blaine were quiet as they peeled off their itchy red lace piece by piece and changed back into street clothes. Blaine, Kurt figured, was likely caught between curiosity over the situation and frustration with Kurt for not telling him what he obviously knew about it already.<p>

_And he'd be well within his right to feel that way_, Kurt figured. He knew how much Blaine hated secrets—or, more specifically, Kurt keeping secrets from him—and he'd gone months without telling Blaine the truth about Jesse's transfer or the secret identity of his girlfriend, even after Blaine had _met _Rachel. He hadn't actively kept it a secret from Blaine, since he'd never had any intention of breaking his promise to Jesse (and, by extension, to Shelby) and telling _anyone_, but he wasn't sure if that was going to make things better or worse when he told Blaine everything, the way he said he would in order to keep Blaine quiet.

And Blaine was keeping what little information he had to himself, in spite of the conversations going on around them, all on Kurt's word that it was important.

_Either way_, he thought as they walked to Blaine's Honda, grey clouds threatening rain overhead, he'd be lucky if his confession didn't end in another battle like the week before.

* * *

><p>Blaine continued to keep quiet until they were both in the car. The second that Kurt closed his door, however, Blaine turned in his seat and looked warily at him.<p>

"Okay, which one is it: something _I _don't know, or something _everyone _doesn't know?" he wondered out loud, sighing in a tired way that went straight to Kurt's gut.

Kurt closed his eyes in order to avoid Blaine's gaze. "Everyone," he admitted, his voice bleaker than he had intended. _Which is probably appropriate, _he mused. "But this is absolutely top secret," he added, forging on, "so even if you're mad at me by the end of this conversation, I need you to promise that you won't tell anyone, either."

When he chanced a glance at Blaine, his expression had shifted into something more curious than annoyed. "I won't," he promised, still watching Kurt with steady eyes.

Kurt nodded, swallowing. "Okay," he murmured to himself.

Breathing deeply one last time, he turned back to face Blaine.

"A while ago, I figured something out about Rachel. Before I could tell you, I was sworn to secrecy," he began again, stretching the truth a little. "And then I—well, I wasn't sure if it was my business to say anything to _anybody, _after that."

"About what?" Blaine pressed, tilting his head slightly in a gesture that was vaguely familiar to Kurt.

There was no other way to say it. "Rachel is Shelby's biological daughter," he blurted out quickly, all in one breath.

Blaine's eyebrows shot up. "Wait, _what?_" he gasped, looking at Kurt disbelievingly. "Seriously?"

When Kurt merely nodded, Blaine shook his head, stunned. "Wow," he muttered, "oh my God. That…I was not expecting you to say that."

Kurt nodded again. "I was shocked, too," he agreed, hoping that _how _he figured it out wasn't going to be Blaine's next question.

Fortunately for him, it wasn't. "Does Jesse know?" Blaine demanded, looking back over at Kurt.

Who swallowed again, nervously. "He does," he confirmed, "but Rachel doesn't. Didn't. I guess she must know now, since she's in our auditorium with Shelby as we speak."

Blaine's eyes narrowed disapprovingly. "Hold on," he said, ignoring Kurt's verbal meandering. "Are you telling me that Jesse knew who his motherless girlfriend's mother was, and he didn't _say _anything?" he wanted to know. "That is—I can't believe how wrong that is."

Kurt blinked rapidly. "I guess it's more complicated than that," he explained slowly, looking down at his hands in his lap. "I wasn't told all of the details—and I didn't ask—but there's some sort of legal situation involved, since Rachel has her Two Gay Dads. I think they were the only ones allowed to tell her about Shelby."

Blaine's expression softened a little at that, but he still shook his head. "He must have said something, though," he reasoned. "It would be too much of a coincidence if Rachel's dads suddenly decided to tell her, once she started dating her mother's favorite student."

He paused, frowning. "And even if they did, Rachel knows that Jesse went to school here, and I'm sure she's figured out by now that he already knew."

Blaine shook his head again. "I feel so bad for her," he admitted. "That has to feel like such a betrayal."

Kurt flinched slightly at the word. Betrayal.

"I didn't tell her either, though, even though I knew," he reminded Blaine quietly.

Blaine's dark eyes widened, and he reached out to grasp Kurt's hand. "Of course you didn't," he said soothingly, seeming to think that it was his deceiving of Rachel that was troubling Kurt, rather than the potential loss of Blaine's good opinion. "It wasn't your place to, and it wouldn't have been fair to her to find out that way. Really, her dads should have said something. But to date her for months without telling her… If Jesse really loved her, he should have—"

Blaine stopped abruptly, and Kurt could practically see the painful realization on his face as he figured it out. "He doesn't love her, does he?" he asked Kurt, his voice clipped. "This is all just some plot of his."

Kurt wanted to defend Jesse, but really, there wasn't much he could say. Blaine was making the same argument he himself had made since the beginning, to no avail. "I don't know anymore," he confessed, closing his eyes and pressing them lightly with his free hand. "I think he does have feelings for her, but it's hard for me to know when he's such an _idiot_ about talking about them. I've been telling him the whole time that he needs to be honest with her, but I don't know how he really feels and I can't control what he does, and…"

He trailed off, not knowing how to explain the enigma that was Jesse's relationship with the world any better than that. He looked up at Blaine shyly, almost afraid to see what his reaction was going to be.

Blaine was looking out the windshield in front of them, watching the last of the stragglers from Vocal Adrenaline (mostly girls who were limping slightly) make their way to their cars. When he spoke, it was in a quiet, bitter tone that Kurt couldn't remember ever hearing from Blaine, except for maybe when he first told Kurt about his old friends from Aquinas.

"I know he's your friend," he said quietly, still staring straight ahead. "But I don't think he's a very good person, Kurt."

If Kurt was being honest with himself, it did hurt to hear that, a little. But there was still the potential for worse, even though Blaine was still clutching his hand, and if Blaine was going to say it, Kurt wanted to get it over with quickly. "Do you think that about me, too?" he asked in a small voice.

Blaine started at the question, turning rapidly to look at Kurt. "Of course not," he promised quickly, vehemently. "Why would I? I don't have to like all of your friends to love _you_, and I don't think you did anything wrong, okay? I'm not—"

He paused. "I wish you had told me about Rachel," he continued, more slowly, "but I understand why you didn't. Shelby asked you to keep her private family stuff private, and you were just honoring her wishes. And you never actually lied to me and said that they weren't related. Which, for the record, I would have had a problem with."

Kurt had been feeling comforted by Blaine's assurances until Blaine mentioned Shelby. Because, thinking back on it, Kurt _hadn't _specifically said that Jesse was the one that had confirmed Rachel's parentage. And Blaine was all right with Kurt's actions (or lack thereof) because he assumed that Shelby was involved, but he probably wouldn't be as forgiving if Kurt told him the truth, not after what he had just said about Jesse. He didn't have to correct Blaine's assumption—Blaine _had _just implied that lying would have involved Kurt specifically saying something that wasn't true—but if he didn't, and Blaine found out, he'd probably be even angrier than if Kurt told him right away.

But Shelby would have asked the same thing of Kurt, had she known that Kurt knew about her and Rachel. So it wasn't as if the outcomes were really any different, and…

Kurt's head hurt.

Probably sensing that he still wasn't completely soothed, Blaine slid closer to his side of the car, pulling Kurt into a warm hug and rubbing his back gently.

"You're a good person," he promised quietly, kissing the side of Kurt's head softly. "I'll always think that."

Kurt felt a single tear slide down his cheek, dripping onto the sleeve of Blaine's shirt and leaving a tiny mark.

He didn't deserve his boyfriend's words. Maybe he didn't even deserve his boyfriend, who was good and sweet and thought the best of him, even when he hadn't earned it.

But he'd hold onto him anyway, as long as he could.

* * *

><p>Shelby had them in their <em>Bad Romance<em> costumes again the next day, but sent them home early when Rachel showed up during a break, and half of her voice lessons and meetings were canceled on Thursday and Friday so that she could leave the school for important, undisclosed business. Rumors were flying around, each one crazier than the last, about what might be going on.

Kurt was one of the only ones who knew anything that came close to resembling the truth. For the first time in his life, however, he wished that he didn't.


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23/More than 30. Whoops.

This chapter has A Lot of Things in it. Fortunately, not as many as it could have had—I was having some structural problems making the first few sections of the chapter less boring, and solicited some opinions on Tumblr. Thank you so much to everyone who weighed in on how much to include; your comments definitely helped, and I ended up combining what would have been two chapters into one from Blaine's point of view, rather than one from each.

I own so little, I really do.

* * *

><p>When the long-anticipated Evaluations schedule was finally posted in the music wing and on the auditorium door on Monday morning, Blaine was initially surprised to see that he and Kurt had been assigned time slots on different days, with Blaine performing on Thursday during his lunch period and Kurt scheduled for the following day. Kurt, however, spotted what he hadn't, pointing out that Giselle's time slot was right after Blaine's, and that Sasha was singing immediately before he himself was.<p>

"This is good," Kurt insisted, nervously smoothing the vest he'd worn that day. "If we're too worried about our own performances, we won't sing as well for each other. It's better to have a day in between, the way we do."

Blaine didn't really need the reassurance—both Kurt and Giselle had pushed him into practicing far more often than he would have done on his own, and the song he and Kurt had chosen was actually pretty easy—but he let Kurt do it anyway. It was obvious that Kurt was beginning to freak out a little bit, and if trying to soothe Blaine's imaginary fears meant that he heard some of those calming messages himself…

Kurt wasn't the only one who was starting to get nervous about Evaluations, which were only a few days away. The seniors in Vocal Adrenaline were less concerned, since they really weren't affected by the results the way the younger students were, but even they were a little more subdued—and a little more sleep deprived—than they had been the week before.

Even Jesse St. James was taking things seriously, skipping a few of his classes at McKinley on Wednesday to give his performance early. Kurt missed Chemistry in order to sing background vocals for him _("He chose _It Takes Two_ from _Hairspray_,"_ Kurt had told him, a few weeks back. "_It's such a disgustingly perfect choice for him that I can't believe he didn't think of it sooner."_), and ended up missing gym class as well so that Shelby could listen to his audition pieces for his Academy tryout, now only a week and a half away. When Kurt practically melted into his arms afterward, looking thoroughly rattled, Blaine was afraid that one or the other had gone terribly wrong, but Kurt assured him that "No, no, it's okay; everything's fine."

He did mention, though, that Shelby now knew that Blaine knew about Rachel. "I told her that you wouldn't tell anyone, though," he promised Blaine, squeezing his shoulders and looking at him with an uncharacteristic seriousness. "And she said that she knew you were trustworthy."

He swallowed. "She also mentioned that there are a lot of talented people graduating this year, and that she hopes some of the underclassmen can show her what they're made of this week," he added, his demeanor suddenly making so much more sense to Blaine. Outwardly, he smiled, because he knew Kurt was expecting him to read between the lines as well as he had done: don't tell, perform well, advance up the ranks next year. Still, taking in Kurt's clammy hands and even-paler-than-usual complexion, he couldn't help but wish that Shelby hadn't increased the already nearly insurmountable pressure on his boyfriend—they had already reached the point that, had Kurt not been too nervous to eat at mealtimes with any sort of predictability, Blaine would have seriously considered smashing up some of his anxiety meds and doctoring his food, just to give him some relief.

* * *

><p>Giselle had approached Blaine early the next morning to ask if they could switch time slots during 5th period, and Blaine had agreed easily, with the simple caveat that she be the one to ask Shelby for permission to trade. Shelby had given her approval, and so it was Giselle's song that Blaine prepared to sing first on Thursday, with Kurt watching from the wings. He was curious to see what Kurt would think about the piece, since he hadn't even heard Blaine sing his part of it yet.<p>

"_It's Giselle's Evaluation, so it's Giselle's job to shape your vocals the way she wants them,"_ Kurt had insisted, when Blaine offered to perform for him. _"I don't want to mess up any work you've done with her."_

"Blaine, are you ready?" Giselle asked, eyes sparkling as she stood in front of her microphone, forgoing the stools that had been provided for them.

Blaine returned her smile, nodding. "Whenever you are," he assured her, stepping into his own spot. Giselle winked at him, then breathed deeply.

"_You are pretty down to your bones…"_

Like Kurt's choice in the fall, the song Giselle had chosen was upbeat, only the lyrics betraying that the song might actually be about something darker and more sinister. And Giselle, though primarily a dancer, had known exactly what she was doing when she selected it—the song suited her vocal tones _perfectly_.

Blaine's part was quieter, but fairly intricate, and he paid even more attention to his cues than usual, determined to do everything as well as he could for Giselle. It was only when she had a few solo lines, right at the bridge, that he had the chance to glance over at Kurt.

Kurt was watching Giselle sing (_"I do adore, the way you are, do you adore me?"_) with a reserved expression, his tight mouth and guarded eyes not giving away much of what he felt. Blaine had had a lot of experience reading Kurt's moods over the past several months, however, and it seemed to him that even if he didn't like Giselle and wasn't necessarily pleased that she was doing so well, he _did _grudgingly admire the final product.

Ripping his eyes away from Kurt, Blaine jumped back into the song just in time, singing his harmonies as well as he ever had in practice until the very end.

He only half-listened as Shelby gave her comments, instead turning back to watch Kurt in the wings as he took a long drink of water and straightened his outfit, preparing to join him onstage. He glanced over at Blaine and Giselle and, noticing that Blaine was looking at him, gave him a slow, sweet smile.

Blaine smiled back.

"All right," he heard Shelby say authoritatively. "Blaine, you're up."

Giselle thanked him nicely for his help and kissed him on the cheek, smiling and waggling her fingers at Kurt before flouncing down the stairs and up the aisle. Kurt scowled at her, but managed to wipe it off of his face before stepping out of the wings and claiming her old microphone, trailing his fingers soothingly across Blaine's back as he crossed behind him.

Shelby looked up from her paperwork. "So, Blaine. I've heard you sing quite a lot since Sectionals," she commented. "I hope you're not going to get nervous on me now just because it's your first Evaluation."

Blaine smiled brightly. "I think I'll be all right," he said honestly, tilting his head a little. "I've been working really hard, and my partner's been very patient and helpful."

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Kurt blushing. "Good kid," Shelby noted, marking something down on the clipboard in front of her. "Okay then, whenever you're ready."

Blaine looked at Kurt, who nodded at him. Like Giselle before him, he gripped the microphone, taking a deep breath.

When Kurt was helping him narrow down potential song choices, he'd had very definite opinions on the type of song he should choose. "_Shelby already knows that you can do softer, ballad-like numbers, and _Bohemian Rhapsody _has really showcased both your range and your theatrical abilities,_" he'd explained. _"You need to show her that you can handle the standard show choir classic—something pop-y, something fun. And, dare I say it, something just a little bit sexy."_

He had actually bounced up and down, clapping, when Blaine had found his song.

"_Sunshine came out today, and it's shining all over the world," _he sang, the slightest bit of growl in his voice, "_Shining all over the world."_ It was clearly not what Shelby had been expecting from him, and she sat up with interest, watching him. Blaine smiled at her, tapping his foot to the rhythm in his head.

"_And it sure feels fine," _Kurt joined in, picking up the high, delicate notes above Blaine's melody, _"when the sunshine shines, it warms your skin, and your soul within…"_

As Blaine got more and more into the song, he couldn't help moving a little in place—nothing drastic, since choreography was forbidden during Evaluations, but enough to release the extra energy that always seemed to build up inside him whenever he sang. He smiled over at Kurt, flirtatiously batting his eyelashes at him. Kurt rolled his eyes, but smiled back, loosening up and dancing in place a little as well.

When they finally reached the end of the song, Blaine sang his part of the harmony (_"And the birds sing…") _with a little flourish, and grinned at Kurt again before politely turning to Shelby, waiting for her to pass judgment.

As Kurt had predicted, Shelby was smiling. "Very impressive first showing, Blaine. Excellent song choice."

Blaine's grin grew wider. "Thank you," he replied, trying to keep his tone professional and calm. "I had help."

Shelby nodded at that. "Still, it showcased you and your talents in a new light, excellent. I'd control that ending a little more, but other than that, I have no complaints. Job very well done."

It was as profuse as he had ever heard her, and Blaine thanked her again. She smiled gracefully at him before turning to Kurt. "You're performing tomorrow afternoon, correct?" she wanted to know.

Kurt nodded. "Correct," he confirmed, "7th period."

Shelby made another note on her clipboard. "I look forward to it," she told him. "You've seen how high the bar is set this semester, but I'm expecting good things from you. Don't let me down."

* * *

><p>Blaine waited until they were out of the auditorium to latch onto Kurt's shoulders. "You were right about e<em>verything<em>," he praised, pressing his mouth to the side of Kurt's face—the halls were empty and he was excited, so he could be as expressive as he felt like. "Every single good thing she said was something that you wanted me to do," he continued. "After you retire from your dazzling performance career, you should totally take her job."

Kurt hugged him back, but his body felt tense under Blaine's grip. "You were wonderful; that's why she said all of those things," he countered. "And we can start planning my future career if I live through tomorrow, I promise."

* * *

><p>Despite Kurt's reservations, his Evaluation went brilliantly. Like the time before, his nervousness was completely gone—or at least invisible—as soon as he stepped into the auditorium, and Blaine watched him proudly from backstage as his incredible, unique voice blended seamlessly with Sasha's. When it was Kurt's turn to perform and Blaine joined him onstage, he was careful to follow all of Kurt's previous suggestions and corrections, and was rewarded with a dazzling smile after their last, lingering harmony.<p>

Shelby's critique was positive, and Blaine thoroughly enjoyed Kurt's elated mood over the weekend (it was entirely possible that Kurt gave the best head in the history of the gay universe, and Blaine had finally worked up the nerve on Saturday to try to return the favor) before Monday rolled around, and the intense pressure on Kurt to succeed at everything was renewed.

* * *

><p>Regionals were less than two weeks away, and rehearsals were lasting longer and longer, with multiple fully-costumed run-throughs of their program every afternoon. Jesse was slowly being integrated back into his solo numbers whenever he didn't have McKinley rehearsals to attend, and his partial return was having an uplifting effect on the rest of the team—everywhere he looked, people were smirking and smiling and whispering and stealing the occasional glance at Jesse. More than once, Blaine overheard one of their teammates pressing Jesse for explicit, unusually detailed information about the New Directions' auditorium and choir room, information that Jesse smoothly provided. Blaine, not seeing the value in such pointless specifics, tended to avoid the hushed, heated conversations that seemed to reoccur during every three-minute break, concentrating instead on cajoling Kurt to drink more water or liquid protein whenever he could.<p>

Kurt, whether because of stress or exhaustion, was not coping with the increased rehearsal hours as well as he had in the fall. He was, of course, as incredible as ever during rehearsals themselves, but was struggling to keep up with everything else—his own practices for his upcoming audition, homework, studying, and staying awake and alert during classes and meals. After sheepishly admitting to Blaine that his dad had banned him from the shop until after his audition, upon finding him sleeping face down in a half-folded pile of laundry, Blaine instituted a similar ban on schoolwork, completing all of Kurt's assignments himself (except for math).

"We're studying nearly all of the same material," he insisted, when Kurt tried to protest. "Besides, you're not going to retain any of this if you're too tired to read and write, and your singing is going to suffer if you don't get enough food and sleep. It's just until Sunday; you can be as sickeningly perfect as you want later, when you're not putting so much pressure on yourself over this audition."

As much as Kurt hated giving up control like that, Blaine knew that Kurt being his best self that weekend was the ultimate trump card, and he agreed to Blaine's suggestion with minimal grumbling.

Still, Blaine couldn't help but feel relieved when Sunday finally rolled around—whatever happened at that audition, he was that much closer to getting his normal, sane boyfriend back.

He had offered to drive up to Columbus with Kurt for moral support when he found out that Mr. Hummel wasn't going—he'd tried to take the day off, but Kurt had insisted that he stay in Lima, pointing out how understaffed the shop was already without him and Cassius, whose fourth granddaughter had been born earlier in the week—but Kurt turned him down as well. "If I drive by myself, I can concentrate on the road," he explained. "If I'm in the passenger seat or have someone there distracting me, all I'll be able to do is think about where I'm going, and I'll end up puking on my shoes. Trust me, it's better this way."

Privately Blaine was less concerned about Kurt puking and more concerned about him crashing the Navigator in a fit of panic, but wisely decided not to mention it.

* * *

><p>Kurt had promised to call once he left the college where the auditions were being held, and while Blaine wasn't expecting him to be done until at least 3:00 (his time slot was at 2:30), he kept his phone on vibrate and in his pocket the entire day, just in case Kurt called early, needing reassurance or a pep talk. When 3:00, and then 3:30 came and went without a call from Kurt, however, Blaine started getting nervous. What if Kurt had finally cracked under the pressure, blown the audition, and was too upset to call? Or had gotten lost and his phone had died, and he was stuck all alone in the middle of nowhere? Or what if Blaine's worry was a premonition, and Kurt had <em>actually <em>crashed the car on the way there?

Blaine was pacing around the kitchen, clutching his phone tightly and debating whether or not to call Mr. Hummel—he couldn't call Kurt; what if he was auditioning _right then _and had forgotten to turn off his cell phone, and the noise distracted him and he messed up and the judges didn't let him into the Academy and it was _all Blaine's fault _and—

The phone buzzed in Blaine's hand. He answered immediately. "Kurt?"

"_Blaine!" _Kurt's voice was loud and slightly muffled, and Blaine guessed that Kurt had him on speakerphone. _"I'm so sorry I'm late; the schedule was all thrown off because one of the girls who was supposed to audition yesterday broke her ankle in the waiting room, and they gave her a new slot this morning, and it turned into a delay for the entire roster, and—"_

"Wait," Blaine interrupted, "she _broke her ankle _yesterday, and she still came in this morning to do her audition?"

"_Yes?"_ Kurt answered back, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "_I told you, these people are really intense. Anyway, my audition went _really _well! Blaine, I was fabulous—there's a McDonald's on campus, and I'm driving and drinking one of those seasonal green milkshakes and I don't even care, that's how fabulous I was."_

"Wow," Blaine praised, honestly impressed; he'd never seen Kurt eat anything resembling fast food in…pretty much ever. "Kurt, that's amazing. I'm so proud of you."

Kurt sighed happily. _"And Blaine, _Sarita Jackson _was there. And the girl who was planted in the waiting room—and really, who did she think she was kidding, she was at least twenty-five—said that Sarita only comes to auditions if she's specifically there to see someone, and I know that there's a good chance that it could be someone else, but Shelby said…"_

Blaine sat down at the kitchen table, playing with the powdered sugar in the half-empty box of doughnuts leftover from breakfast and listening to Kurt chatter, with little interruption, for nearly an hour. He honestly didn't know who or what Kurt was talking about half of the time, and he couldn't really say much in response to Kurt's thorough analysis of his own performances, since he hadn't actually been there, but he knew how exciting it was for Kurt, and that he might as well let him talk himself out.

"_Thank you for being such a good listener," _Kurt added suddenly, shyly, as if he had overheard Blaine's thoughts. _"I know I'm talking too much, but it's nice to have somebody to talk to who actually cares about what I'm saying. Dad tries, but he really doesn't get it, Jesse would have found a way to make the conversation about him within five minutes, and nobody else would have put up with my rambling for this long. I really appreciate you being on the phone with me."_

"Of course, anytime," Blaine promised, feeling vaguely guilty over his boredom. "I'm just glad that it's over, and now you don't have to worry about it anymore."

He could hear Kurt smiling over the phone. _"Just in time, too," _he responded dryly. _"Only six more days until Regionals."_

* * *

><p>Blaine's parents had ordered his favorite pizza and rented a movie he liked that evening, his mother blusteringly saying that they'd noticed how hard he'd been working lately and wanted to do something nice together as a family, so Blaine didn't see Kurt until the next morning in school. Despite having gone straight home and passed out for twelve full hours when his milkshake-induced sugar high came crashing down, Kurt was still looking thoroughly exhausted.<p>

But happy. "I know I should be worrying about whether I'll be accepted or not," he sighed lightly, eyes shining even as his head and arms were slumped over Blaine's desk. "But it's just such a relief to be finished that I haven't even bothered yet."

Blaine shook his head, smiling. "I'm sure you'll get in," he offered for the ten-thousandth time. "And even if you don't, no worrying you do now is going to change it."

Kurt shrugged. "Your premise sounds logical now, but I'm sure I'll tear that argument into little, tiny pieces next week when the panic starts to set in," he informed Blaine. "Enjoy my peace of mind and lack of success-driven insanity while you still can."

Blaine had every intention of doing so. "Can I take you out to dinner tonight to celebrate your fabulous audition and glowing mental health?" he asked, smiling fondly at Kurt.

Kurt's face lit up momentarily, before deflating a little. "I promised my dad that we could have our celebration dinner tonight," he said sadly. "He even promised not to complain if I made him eat eggplant."

He paused. "You could come over and have dinner with us," he suggested hopefully. "I might need to run to the store after rehearsal if I'm cooking for three, but—"

"No, no it's fine," Blaine assured him before he could finish. "You have your time with your dad, we'll go out later this week—we're out before five every day; we'll have plenty of chances."

Blaine had originally thought that the week's rehearsal schedule had been a fake, since each day's practice ended around 4:30, 4:45 at the latest. It wasn't until Kurt had explained that Shelby had consulted several former Olympic athletes (and their coaches) on how to best harness their explosive energy, and had used their advice to design a tapering schedule to follow before Regionals and Nationals, that the sudden influx of time made sense.

Kurt nodded his approval. "Or," he added, "we can wait until we win Regionals this weekend, pool our money, and have a double celebration someplace nicer."

Blaine smiled wryly. "_If_ we win," he reminded Kurt.

Kurt smiled back, poisonously sweet. "_When_ we win," he repeated, not a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

Blaine thought about dinner the night before, about the almost desperately pleased look on his mother's face when he agreed to her Family Night idea. "Maybe...our parents can come," he said slowly.

Kurt perked up, looking up at him with hopeful eyes. "Really?" he asked, slightly breathless.

Blaine bit his lip. "Really," he confirmed. "I mean…I don't think—I'm not ready to tell them, about us. Not yet." Kurt's face fell, and Blaine could have kicked himself for being the cause of his crestfallen expression. "I'm getting there, though, okay? I promise, I'll be ready soon. And…I don't know. I want them to know you. I think they're really starting to try, for real this time."

Kurt's disappointed look didn't fade, but he did his best to smile. "That's great, Blaine," he said firmly, reaching out and tracing his fingers lightly over Blaine's hand, the way he loved. "I'm so glad."

The bell was going to ring any second, but Blaine leaned forward and kissed him anyway. Kissing Kurt, or really, any public display of affection beyond hand holding, still didn't come easily to Blaine in front of so many people, and he knew how much it meant to Kurt when he pushed past all of his issues and did it anyway.

And right then was no different—when Blaine pulled away, Kurt was beaming, eyes bright and smile radiating happiness. "You know, Dad's not going to be home until around 7:00, which means we have a few hours to kill after rehearsal," he mentioned, the sly look in his eye belying his offhanded tone. "Want to go for coffee?"

Blaine couldn't help but grin back. "Always," he agreed. "And can we go to the Farmers Mart, too? They've let the animals into the outdoor pens for the spring."

Kurt's forehead wrinkled in thought. "Isn't that the place with the dyed, multicolored chickens?" he wanted to know.

Blaine nodded wordlessly.

Kurt sighed heavily. "I was trying to trick you into my empty house, but who am I to deny you your fashion-forward poultry?" he asked rhetorically as the bell rang, quickly winking at Blaine before turning around to face the front of the classroom.

A few minutes later, when Mrs. Jennings was passing back their latest round of papers, a post it note made its way back to Blaine's desk: _I'm sneaking into the music office during 6__th__ period to get a copy of my Evaluation report. Want to come?_

Eyes on the front of the room, just in case, Blaine quickly wrote back. _Can't, sorry, I have class (in more than one way, too!). But I know a great song about chicken thieves, if you're still feeling your kleptomaniacal tendencies this afternoon. _

Kurt's response was short, to the point, and nearly got them caught when Blaine read it and had to fight hard to suppress his laughter:

_You would._

* * *

><p>A few of Blaine's classes had felt slightly emptier than usual that day, but it wasn't until he walked into the cafeteria and realized that his lunch table, which usually consisted of some of his teammates and their friends, was mostly vacant, that he began to worry. Quickly going through the line and buying a slice of pizza (what he wanted to eat) and a salad (what he'd tell Kurt he ate), he dropped his tray onto the table and slid into his usual seat next to Ryleigh, who was tapping away on her phone.<p>

"Where is everyone today?" he wondered, glancing around the room in case he had missed something (like a brand new table with a dozen familiar bodies).

Ryleigh shrugged, not missing a beat as she continued to text. "Don't know. Nobody said anything to me," she replied casually. "Part of The Fleet is gone though, and Giselle was talking about McKinley when a bunch of the girls were at the mall yesterday. Maybe they went to go 'talk' to our competition; dish out a little payback for all the spies they keep sending over."

Blaine, a little wary of the emphasis Ryleigh put on the word 'talk', wasn't sure if he wanted to know. After a minute, though, his curiosity won out. "What does that mean?" he asked, picking at his salad with the cafeteria-issue cheap plastic fork.

Ryleigh barely glanced up at him. "You know, the usual stuff," she explained. "Toilet-papering their parking lot; spray-able chalk on their stage. Nothing permanent, just a message that they don't want to pick a fight with us."

Blaine couldn't help but stare. "Isn't that a little extreme?" he wanted to know, raising an eyebrow. "It's only show choir."

Ryleigh finally looked up from her cell phone. "And _only_ 80% of the graduating seniors have their insane college scholarships because of it," she shot back, in a tone of voice that suggested that he should have known that already. "Nobody made us do anything, and I don't even know if that's where everyone is today. If you care so much, ask at rehearsal."

* * *

><p>Blaine didn't ask at rehearsal.<p>

Partly because he didn't want to ruin the giddy, upbeat mood that steadily grew, along with everyone's show smiles, as VA hit cue after cue with a perfection that felt almost unreal. And partly because if what Ryleigh suggested was true, he wasn't sure what he should do about it. The idea of deliberately hassling another team, even if they _had _sent over spies first, felt shameful and unsportsmanlike, and the whole thing made Blaine uneasy. At the same time, though, it didn't sound like anyone else was concerned, or even talking about it, and standing up to older students who bullied people for stupid reasons hadn't gone particularly well for him in the past.

In the end, Blaine chose not to bring it up, deciding to ask Kurt what he knew about it on their coffee date.

* * *

><p>As it turned out, he didn't get the opportunity—even though Blaine pulled out of the parking lot at Carmel only a minute or so after Kurt, an unlucky string of red lights meant that by the time he made it to the Lima Bean, Kurt was already sitting at a table, with two cooling soy mocha lattes and a sheet of paper in front of him.<p>

"I'm 'beginning to truly develop my artistic autonomy'," Kurt bragged with a smile, "and have 'surpassed expectations in both style choice and embodiment'."

Blaine took a sip of his drink. "That's a good thing?" he double-checked facetiously, nudging Kurt's foot under the table.

Kurt nudged back. "That's a very good thing," he confirmed, eyelashes fluttering as he looked down at his report with a dreamy smile. "The only ambiguous thing on here is that she wanted to push me into trying a more emotionally-laden piece in the future, but without 'letting the performance of emotion take precedence over the _actual _emotion'. But that's nothing that I did wrong this time, and it's a step up from her critique last year, which basically implied that I couldn't do it."

Blaine smiled warmly, happy that Kurt wasn't upset over the less-than-strictly-perfect review. "And now you'll know what to do in June," he reminded Kurt, who nodded in return.

"I'll bet yours is even better," he commented, folding the sheet neatly and sliding it back into his bag.

Blaine shrugged. With the weird practice hours, his parents' redoubled efforts at family life, and Kurt's recent bouts of pressure-based subpar mental health, he hadn't really given much thought to his own Evaluation since the day it happened. "Probably not," he said mildly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm sure I did fine, but I don't think anyone could have possibly worked harder than you. Even Giselle took time off when she had her crown replaced, and she told me that she normally practices three times a day. Out of the two of us, you're the star."

Someone dropped a mug on the other side of the room, and the noise of the shattering ceramic startled Blaine enough that he looked over instinctively, gripping the table with white-knuckled fingers.

When he looked back a moment later, Kurt was staring at him. "Want to find out?" he asked softly, reaching back into his bag.

"Do I…" Blaine started, a little confused—the crash had only distracted him for a few seconds, but it was enough that he wasn't quite picking up the context of Kurt's question.

That is, until he saw the paper in Kurt's hand, almost identical to the one Kurt had just been reading from moments before. "You stole my Evaluations report?" he asked, incredulous.

Kurt nodded triumphantly. "It's just a copy, like mine," he promised; "the original is back in the office. But I figured that as long as I was sneaking in anyway…"

Blaine honestly wasn't sure how to react. He wasn't crazy about the idea of anyone stealing the reports—even if Kurt was right in his declaration that 'everyone did it', it still felt like an invasion of privacy to him, a misuse of Shelby's trust—but it wasn't his job to tell Kurt what he could and couldn't do. If he wanted to sneak into the office and read his own report, that was his business, not Blaine's. To steal _Blaine's _as well, though…

He knew Kurt had meant well, and he couldn't really get angry at him because of that. And it wasn't like he was hurting anyone, the way that his teammates potentially picking on choirs from other schools did. Still, something about the whole situation rubbed him the wrong way.

Some of Blaine's feelings must have shown on his face, because Kurt's expression glazed over a bit, and he bit his lip nervously. "Did you not—I didn't read it. Not without you. I just…thought that maybe you would have wanted to see it if you had it, but didn't want to sneak into the office or skip class."

Blaine felt something inside of him soften. He was still a little bothered by Kurt's presumptuous thievery, but he could understand how Kurt might have assumed what he had—his reply to Kurt's inquiry that morning _was _a little ambiguous, and even though the idea of stealing from his teachers made Blaine recoil, the thought of knowing what was on that paper, what Shelby (and by extension, the rest of Vocal Adrenaline) _really _thought about him…

It was weirdly tempting.

Kurt was looking down at the table, no longer meeting Blaine's eyes. "I should have asked you first," he admitted, putting the paper face down on the table and tracing his finger over a few granules of sugar left over from his chair's last occupant. "I'll throw it out, okay?"

Kurt's saddened face broke Blaine's heart a little. "No, hey," he offered gently, reaching forward and clasping Kurt's hand with his own. "I'm not mad, all right? Yeah, you should have asked, but you thought you were doing something nice; you didn't know."

Kurt looked up then, blue eyes slightly nervous. "I should have known that, though," he pointed out, mouth twisting. "You're so good. I'll bet you never even stole a pack of gum from the store when you were little, did you?"

Blaine had to laugh at the appropriateness of the question. "Once," he admitted. "When I was six. But the next day in Sunday school, the teacher was talking about how lying and stealing were wrong and sinful, and I got so upset that my mom had to come and pick me up early."

He closed his eyes, feeling a slight blush forming on his cheeks. "The next day, we brought back the gum, a nickel to replace the piece I'd already chewed, and a picture I drew of a sad face saying 'I'm sorry I stealed your candy, it was bad and I am sorry'," he added. "I was too embarrassed to go back there for at least two years."

Kurt's smile was infectious. "That sounds exactly like you," he told Blaine, "only without your excellent grasp of the written word." Blaine kicked him lightly under the table again, and Kurt yelped and kicked him back.

"I used to steal makeup for my mom all the time," Kurt shared, taking a sip of his nearly-empty drink. "I had memorized all of her brands and shades, and whenever she was running low on something, I'd slip it into my pocket or boots at the store when nobody was looking, and replace it for her when we got home. She knew I was the one doing it, because I was unreasonably fascinated with her vanity table, but it took her about six months to realize that Dad didn't have a secret list of her cosmetics tucked into his wallet."

Kurt rarely talked about his mother in front of Blaine. Whenever he did, Blaine was riveted. "What did she do?" he wanted to know.

Kurt shook his head. "Laughed," he answered simply. "She was mortified for a few seconds, I'm sure of that, but then she laughed, sat me on her lap, and explained that if we didn't pay the makeup companies, they wouldn't have any money to buy ingredients or pay the people who made her lipstick. And that buying things instead of stealing them was our way of saying 'Thank you' to those people."

Blaine stifled his laughter. "Your mom sounds like she would have been fun to play Monopoly with," he commented, making Kurt smile sadly.

"It took me until I was fourteen to figure out that she let me win most of the time when I was little," he confirmed.

Not wanting to upset Kurt by making him dwell on his childhood, Blaine carefully slipped the Evaluations report out from underneath his hand. "Why don't I throw this out, and buy some more coffee to take with us?" he suggested. "I think they only sell hot cider at the Farmers Mart in the fall."

Kurt blinked up at him hopefully. "Can we stop at my house on the way?" he wanted to know. "It's getting cold out again, and if we're going outside, we should stop and get something heavier to wear."

All previous unease forgotten, Blaine held out his hand to Kurt, helping him to his feet. "Of course," he agreed. "Check your phone, okay? I thought I heard it go off in your bag."

While Kurt did just that, Blaine squeezed his hand before letting go, walking over to the counter and getting in line behind the two other people waiting to order.

The report was still clutched in his left hand.

Tapping his foot gently, Blaine stared at the back of the paper in trepidation. All of his previous concerns about reading it were still true, even if he _did _want to read it, just a little. On the other hand, though, even if Kurt was telling the truth (which he probably was) and hadn't read it out of respect for Blaine, it sounded as if accessing any and every report was a lot easier than Blaine had thought. And Blaine was starting to get a bigger picture of his teammates' competitive traits—what if the others, like Kurt, hadn't stopped at merely copying their own personal reports? What if half of the team knew what his strengths and weaknesses were, and he didn't? Did that matter?

The thoughts in his head were getting louder and more uncomfortable, and Blaine left his place in line, striding over to the trash can before he could change his mind.

He barely caught a glimpse of Shelby's photocopied handwriting—_"incredible leading man potential_—before the paper disappeared.

* * *

><p>Sipping his coffee while he drove (unbeknownst to Kurt, he'd ordered a super-fattening white mocha latte when at the counter the second time), Blaine followed Kurt's Navigator through the increasingly familiar neighborhoods, parking behind Kurt in the driveway once they reached the house—he didn't want to take Burt's vacant spot, in case he arrived before they left, and they were taking Blaine's car to the Farmers Mart since Kurt didn't know how to get there. The breeze had picked up since they'd left the Lima Bean, and Blaine hurried to catch up with Kurt, who was wisely already hurrying to the front porch.<p>

"It was so nice out this weekend," Kurt lamented, as he turned his key in the door. "I was hoping for spring—not that I don't love layers, but there's so much more laundry involved."

Blaine squeezed his hand, slipping into the house behind him and swiftly closing the door, shutting out the chill. "Just a few more weeks," he promised. "And then only a few more months until summer. I want to see you in a bathing suit at least once before you leave for the Academy."

"If I get in," Kurt reminded him, but he looked pleased by the compliment, as he did every time. "And only if you know of any indoor pools. You've seen how much sunscreen I go through at rehearsal; imagine how much I have to use when the actual sun is involved."

Blaine winced slightly. Kurt's complexion, while gorgeously smooth and unfairly blemish-free, was incredibly pale, and Blaine could see how that might be a problem. "We'll go on a cloudy day and find the world's biggest beach umbrella," he compromised, following Kurt into the kitchen and stepping forward to open the basement door for him. "And maybe you'll get to keep the rest of Carmel's SPF 500 sunscreen, since nobody else'll use it before it expires."

Kurt rolled his eyes as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "Ha ha," he responded darkly, grabbing a neatly folded hooded sweatshirt off of the stack of clothes on his dresser and tossing it at Blaine, who caught it easily. He quickly pulled the hoodie over his head, reveling in the scent of Kurt and the sudden warmth of the close-fitting fabric.

"Not all of us were born perfect, you know. Some of us have to work at it," Kurt continued from inside his closet. "No damaging my self-esteem; we're supposed to be celebrating."

Blaine grinned, even though Kurt couldn't see it. "Sorry," he apologized, not meaning it. "How about, 'wear whatever sunscreen you want, and I promise not to make fun of you, no matter how ridiculous it is, because I'll be too busy being thankful for your shirtless presence?'"

Kurt peered around the doorframe at him, smiling. "Much better," he agreed. "Is there a navy cashmere sweater over there?"

Blaine, who was standing near the dresser, quickly leafed through the small pile of clothing. "I don't see it," he told Kurt, who frowned slightly.

"It must be upstairs," he surmised. "Don't move; I'll be right back."

Blaine briefly considered staying frozen in his spot until Kurt returned, but decided not to bother, flopping down into Kurt's desk chair and spinning in lazy circles as the sound of Kurt's footsteps overhead slowly faded instead.

On his fifth or sixth counterclockwise turn, Blaine noticed the fresh stack of post it notes next to the mugful of pens on the desk, brighter and with more color options than the last time Blaine had left him a note to find. Eagerly peeling off a hot pink post it, Blaine grabbed a pen, drawing a large, sloppy heart and the initials _KH & BA _in the middle with a decisive flourish.

Dropping the pen back into the mug, Blaine frowned, trying to think of a place to stick the heart that Kurt wouldn't immediately spot—the desk was obviously out, and he'd likely duck back into the closet or the bathroom if his sweater was still missing in action when he came downstairs. Leaving it in a drawer somewhere seemed like the smartest option, and Blaine swiveled his chair to face the desk again, pulling open the third drawer with the intention of putting his note on the very top of all the notes from him that Kurt had saved.

A quick glance at the contents of the drawer told Blaine that he had opened the wrong one, and he was in the act of sliding it shut when he noticed something that made him pause: in the drawer was a manila envelope. A manila envelope with his name written across the front.

Curiously, he reached into the drawer and picked it up.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24/thirtysomething. Technically, I'm not old enough to make that joke.

The good news: the chapter's up early, yay. The bad news: some of you are going to want to beat me with a shovel by the time it's over.

…sorry about that. I don't own anything, or I'd offer it in reparation.

* * *

><p>Kurt's sweater was hanging on a drying rack in the laundry room, exactly where he <em>didn't <em>remember leaving it. Whether he was losing his mind—a sadly distinct possibility—or whether his dad had found it elsewhere and put it there, the sweater was clean and unwrinkled, and Kurt gratefully pulled it on over his thin, long-sleeved shirt. His boyfriend and his cell phone, the two things he couldn't leave the house without, were still downstairs in his room, and Kurt opened the door and slipped down the stairs gracefully, neatly straightening his sleeves as he did.

Rather than continue across the room, however, Kurt stopped short at the bottom of the stairs:

Blaine was sitting on the floor, his back leaning against the bed and knees drawn up to his chest, surrounded by newspaper articles that were haphazardly scattered across the carpet.

The manila envelope from Kurt's desk drawer sat, neatly opened, on his bedspread.

_Fuck._

Blaine broke the silence first. "What is this?" he asked quietly, his voice low and gravelly as he stared at the mess with red-rimmed eyes.

Kurt, throat suddenly incapable of speech, couldn't answer.

"What is this?" Blaine demanded again, more sharply than the first time.

Kurt didn't move. "I don't—I didn't—"

"Didn't what?" Blaine interrupted his stammering, still not looking up at Kurt.

Kurt swallowed. "I didn't read them," he managed. His stomach lurched, and he wrapped his arms around himself, body shivering despite the extra layers of clothing.

Blaine closed his eyes. "There's a limit," he said dully, slumping backwards a little, "to how many times you can say that in a day and have me still believe you."

Kurt felt sick; there was no way he was going to make it through the conversation without throwing up. "It's true, I didn't," he promised, tightening his grip around his waist until his fingers ached. "I—"

"They were in your _desk, _Kurt," Blaine cut him off, in the same, weary tone. "All I wanted to do was leave you a note, and—"

Blaine's voice cracked on the last word, and he quickly clamped his mouth shut, swallowing harshly. When he finally looked up, Kurt could see that his eyes were glassy and bright with unshed tears.

"How long have you known?" he wanted to know.

The question caught Kurt off guard; he still didn't know exactly what it was that he didn't know. "Known what?" he asked weakly. "Blaine—"

"How long have you been holding on to these?" Blaine clarified, grabbing a fistful of papers and standing up. He held them out for Kurt to see. "Have you had them since we started dating? Since we _met_? Later? _When, _Kurt?"

Kurt blinked his own tears back furiously. "I don't remember," he insisted, "because _I didn't read them._"

"Then why do you have them?" Blaine countered, glaring sharply at Kurt. "Stop _lying _to me."

Something inside of Kurt snapped. "I'm not lying, Blaine," he spat, frustrated. "Why don't you trust me?"

Blaine's eyebrows shot up. "_This _is supposed to inspire trust?" he demanded, throwing the papers back onto the floor. "Instead of asking me what happened the night I got the crap kicked out of me by three of my classmates on school property, you _clipped articles_ about it?"

Kurt was too upset to fully process what Blaine had just disclosed about what had happened to him back at his old school. "I didn't do it," he swore, for what felt like the ten-thousandth time, looking Blaine directly in the eye.

Something in Blaine's expression flickered, and Kurt felt the slightest spark of hope that he had gotten through to Blaine, that he had finally made Blaine hear what he was saying and believe it, bloom in his chest.

Then Blaine's expression hardened, and the spark died.

"Then who did?" Blaine asked quietly, a slow-burning anger that Kurt had very rarely heard from him coloring his voice. "Whose idea was it to track down every last piece of the worst night of my life, stick them all in an envelope, and stuff them in your desk, all so that you could _not _read them?"

"Jesse," Kurt answered dismissively, automatically. "But—"

"_Jesse_," Blaine interrupted, turning swiftly away from Kurt and raking his fingers through his hair. "Jesus. That's just perfect," he added, tone bitter. "I can't believe this is happening."

Now that Blaine wasn't staring him down with that haunted, betrayed look on his face, Kurt could think a little more clearly. "He gave them to me, but I wasn't going to read them unless you told me what happened first," he explained, much more gently—in his guilt and defensiveness and hurt, he realized, he'd practically been yelling at Blaine.

"They were just…" Kurt continued, shaking his head as he thought, "I know it's hard for you to talk about. I didn't want you to have to relive any of it, trying to explain it all to me. That's all, Blaine, I swear."

Blaine was still facing away from Kurt, and his hands curled slowly into fists.

"The night of the Sadie Hawkins Dance," he said slowly, his voice steely and perfectly controlled, "my friend who went with me and I were outside, waiting for our ride home, when the three of them came out from the school gym and saw us."

He scoffed. "That was the worst part," he explained, "that they didn't even plan it—we were just _there, _and it seemed like _fun. _The biggest guy grabbed me from behind, holding my arms so that I couldn't fight back. I ended up dislocating my shoulder, trying to get away; it pulled at a bad angle when I fell.

"One of the others was punching me while I was still standing, but switched to kicking me once I was on the pavement," he recited clinically, turning his head slightly but still not looking at Kurt. "There was glass embedded in my skin that they had to remove at the hospital, and the side of my face that was scraping the asphalt was almost unrecognizable by the time my parents got to the emergency room. I had scratches and bruises everywhere, I needed stitches in seven different places, and the nurses were worried about my kidneys because there was blood in my urine for two days—they said it was a miracle that I didn't break any bones or have any irreversible organ damage."

Tears were sliding down Kurt's cheeks. He took a step forward, reaching out to wrap his arms around Blaine from behind, if he wouldn't turn around, and kiss apologies for every terrible thing that had ever happened to him into his skin.

Blaine's voice stopped him. "And then we got the call from the school," he said hollowly, "saying that since there was no physical proof that the three students I named had anything to do to with my injuries, and that since it was mine and Tyler's words against theirs, they couldn't expel them from the Institute, though we were of course welcome to call the police and pursue the incident as a civil matter, if we wanted to. We'd be happy to know, though, that the school board had voted in favor of waiving my suspension for fighting on school property and attending a boy-girl dance with a male date, given my recent hospitalization. Oh, and that they were considering earmarking some of the next school year's budget to invest in a floodlight for the parking lot."

Blaine paused. "Why on earth would any of that be hard to talk about?" he wondered sardonically.

Kurt was at a loss. "Blaine, I…" he began, without the slightest clue of what he wanted to say, besides _I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, God, I'm sorryI'msorryI'msorryI—_

"What?" Blaine prompted tiredly, finally turning around to look at him, the anger from before completely drained from his voice.

Another tear slipped down Kurt's face. "I'm sorry," he said earnestly, more clearly than he had thought it. "God, I—I didn't know. I wouldn't…if I knew—"

Kurt paused, taking a deep breath. "I shouldn't have kept them; I should have just thrown them out," he sighed, briefly closing his eyes. "I'm so sorry."

The long, sad look that Blaine gave him was heartbreaking. "Why do you keep realizing things when it's too late?" he asked softly, tilting his head slightly.

Kurt's heart stopped, his body utterly still.

"I love you," Blaine continued, seemingly unaware that his insinuation had given Kurt a stroke. "You're the most incredible person I've ever met, Kurt, and it _hurts _ so much more when you do stuff like this _because _it's you, because you're perfect to me and I'm, just…_blindsided _when—"

Blaine shook his head, tears threatening to fall again. "God, I just…I have to go," he said hoarsely, blinking rapidly. "I have to be alone and think."

Kurt inhaled sharply. "Blaine," he protested faintly, terrified that Blaine would never look back if he walked out the door, but not sure if anything he could say was enough to make him stay.

Blaine sighed. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?" he asked, looking at Kurt with weary eyes.

Which was more than he deserved, Kurt knew. "Okay," he whispered, letting Blaine walk past him and cringing slightly as a few of Jesse's papers crunched under his feet.

"I love you. I'm so sorry," he added, as Blaine reached the bottom of the stairs.

"You said that," Blaine pointed out, tone dull.

Then what he had just said caught up with him, and Kurt watched as he immediately froze in place on the stairs.

"I'm sorry," Blaine apologized quickly, the look of shock on his face mirroring the one Kurt knew he himself was wearing. "That was—I didn't mean—I'm sorry."

Looking vaguely horrified—more at himself than at anything Kurt had done or said, Kurt knew—Blaine turned and retreated quickly up the stairs, the sound of his car starting up and driving away reaching Kurt's ears moments later.

Kurt was alone.

* * *

><p>Kurt wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting on the bathroom floor. At some point after Blaine had left, he'd gotten down on his hands and knees, stuffing all of the still-unread papers back into their envelope and tossing them all into the trash can, where they should have gone in the first place. Unable to stomach the sight of his room and all its associations with Blaine—Blaine stretched out, half-naked on his bed; Blaine in his suit for the Winter Ball, eyes big and soft as he shyly tucked his shirt in and straightened his bowtie; Blaine blinking back tears as Kurt stomped all over his feelings, <em>again<em>—he had fled to the bathroom to wash the salty tearstains from his face.

He'd barely made it through the doorway, though, when the sight of his reflection in the mirror, the stupid blue sweater he had hunted all over the house for so that he could look nice and stay warm when he and Blaine went back out, threw the entire situation into perspective—that this mistake might be the one that pushed Blaine too far. Kurt's breathing had sped up until he was gasping for air, each inhalation hitching painfully in his throat, and he'd slid down the wall and onto the floor, eyes watering and skin turning hot and everything impossibly wrong.

The sudden panic had eventually worn itself out, leaving Kurt feeling empty and hollow, but aware enough of his surroundings to shut and lock the bathroom door when he heard the sound of the front door opening upstairs, followed by his dad calling out to him. He couldn't let his dad see him the way he was; couldn't face that look of disappointment that Burt was sure to give him when he admitted how badly he'd screwed things up.

And he'd have to tell—his dad didn't always notice when Kurt was upset or tired or lonely, but he wasn't blind or _stupid_, and one look at Kurt would be enough to make him realize that something was deeply wrong. And in his current state, Kurt was sure to crack under the questioning.

"Kurt?"

Burt's voice was right outside the door—while Kurt had been feverishly thinking, his dad had been walking down the stairs. "I tried to call you before I left the shop, to see if you needed me to pick up anything for your dinner. You okay in there, Bud?"

Right—his phone was still out in his room. "I don't feel very well, Dad," Kurt said truthfully, closing his eyes and tilting his head back until it was resting against the wall. "I don't think I'm up to cooking tonight."

He could picture his dad on the other side of the door, holding onto each side of the doorframe and frowning slightly with worry. "Are you coming down with something?" Burt wanted to know, sounding concerned. "I can get you the thermometer, or some medicine."

"I just took some," Kurt lied, "thanks. Can we—I just want to take a bath and go to bed. Is it all right if we have our dinner later this week?"

"Whatever you want," Burt promised. "But you've gotta eat something, even if you're not feeling too good. Do you want some soup? I can make you a grilled cheese sandwich, if you're up for it."

Kurt shuddered. "No thanks, Dad, I'm not hungry," he insisted, knowing all too well what would happen if he tried to eat anything while his stomach was twisted into so many knots.

"When are you ever?" his dad countered, sighing. "I worry about you, sometimes."

He paused. "You know you can talk to me, if you're having problems, or if something's bothering you," he said seriously. "I might not always know what to do about it, but I love you, and I'm always here for you when you need me. Okay?"

Kurt felt his eyes swimming with tears. Again. "I know, Dad," he promised, fighting with everything he had to keep his voice steady. "I love you, too."

On the other side of the door, Burt cleared his throat. "I'll make you some soup," he told Kurt, "and leave it on the table next to your bed. Why don't you go on and take your bath, and it'll be ready when you get out?"

Kurt swallowed. "Okay," he agreed, resigning himself to eating at least a spoonful or two—he could no more throw out his dad's soup than he could Blaine's cake.

_Blaine._ A fresh wave of sadness and guilt washed over Kurt, and he buried his face in his hands, trying to keep his sobbing as quiet as possible as Burt's footsteps faded up the stairs, leaving him alone once again.

* * *

><p>The next day was hell.<p>

It had been nearly three in the morning before he'd managed to fall asleep, and his dreams were unsettling enough to make him wish that, when his alarm jolted him awake, he hadn't bothered trying in the first place. He'd bickered with his dad about whether or not he should stay home from school, his dad arguing that he looked too pale and tired and needed to take the day off and get some rest. Kurt, unwilling to explain that the only thing worse than going to school feeling like a wrecked, emotional time bomb would be _not _going and having nothing to do but dwell on his fight with Blaine, argued that pale and tired was his default, and that he'd sleep after Regionals. Burt grumbled that the amount of rehearsing they did was probably against a state law somewhere; Kurt countered that they had checked and it wasn't; Burt claimed that the fact that Kurt knew that only proved his point.

In the end, Kurt drove to school feeling even more depressed than when he had woken up.

He had no idea how he made it through his first three classes. Somehow, though, the bell signaling the end of 3rd period was ringing, and Kurt was walking down the hall toward History, facing the prospect of having to sit within arm's reach of Blaine for nearly an hour without being able to look back at him or talk to him about the night before or latch onto him and not let go until the police or security guards pried him off or—

_Again: fuck._

Blaine was already in his seat when Kurt walked into the room, slumped over his desk and looking nearly as bad as Kurt felt. His hair looked as messy and disheveled as it did the day they first met, and his clothes were slightly wrinkled and carelessly chosen, as if he'd merely thrown on whatever was nearest that morning, and had spent the rest of the day tugging at them. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot, and Kurt's heart leapt into his throat when they met his own.

Willing himself not to throw up, or turn and run, he gave Blaine a small, tentative smile. After a harrowing pause of indeterminate length—it couldn't have realistically been more than a few seconds, but to Kurt it felt like _forever_—Blaine smiled back.

The bell rang, and Kurt reluctantly sat down, turning away from Blaine and trying to keep his shoulders from slumping in relief. He wasn't out of the wood yet—Blaine could say anything, when they finally got the chance to talk—but just being able to see for himself that Blaine didn't hate him was enough to lift a weight from Kurt that he hadn't known he was carrying.

Despite not listening to a single thing Mrs. Jennings said (well aware that he was being pathetic, Kurt sat back in his chair, straining to hear the rise and fall of Blaine's breathing instead), class flew by. He hadn't heard the zipper of Blaine's bag or the sound of his pen scratching in his obsessive listening, though, so when the bell rang and Blaine reached forward to drop a note onto his desk, Kurt glanced back in surprise before quickly unfolding it.

Blaine's penmanship was messier than usual, but the question was still legible: _Can we talk before rehearsal?_

Blaine had stood up, gathering his things while he watched Kurt read, and Kurt looked up at him, nodding. "Of course," he promised softly. "Outside the auditorium? We can find some place quieter."

Blaine nodded back. "Okay," he agreed, the hoarseness of his voice paining Kurt more than a little. "See you then." With one last sad, tiny smile at Kurt, he weaved his way through the straggling students and out the door.

Kurt watched him go, wishing desperately for—and simultaneously dreading—the end of the school day.

* * *

><p>Unlike his first few classes, the rest of the day went by excruciatingly slowly. Unable to concentrate on anything his teachers were saying—resulting in two missed questions and possibly agreeing to compete in an upcoming gymnastics meet in however many events—Kurt spent an irrational amount of time thinking through every possible way his talk with Blaine might go, only stopping periodically to gaze longingly at the clock, willing it to go faster. When the bell finally rang at the end of the day, he dashed out of the locker room and down the hall, not caring that he was still in the process of buttoning his shirt (and that, consequently, people were staring).<p>

Kurt reached the auditorium in record time, but Blaine's final class was closer, and he was already leaning against the wall and waiting when Kurt rushed around the corner, slightly out of breath.

Blaine's eyebrows shot up in surprise at the sight of him. "Are you okay?" he asked, sounding…almost normal, given the circumstances.

Kurt nodded. "Yeah, yes," he answered, a little too quickly. "I just—I ran. How are you?"

Blaine shrugged, looking down at his shoes.

Kurt deflated a bit. "Should we…the alcove around the corner is usually empty around now," he suggested, starting to dread the conversation more now that it was on the brink of actually happening.

Blaine nodded, looking back up. "Yeah, that's—okay," he agreed, gesturing for Kurt to lead the way. Kurt did, smiling hollowly at everyone they passed on the way, ignoring the curious looks they were getting from their teammates as they headed away from the auditorium.

He didn't have to look at Blaine to know that he was doing the same.

"So," he began slowly, as they approached the empty stretch of hallway, "last night was…"

"Terrible?" Blaine supplied, looking as uncomfortable talking about it as Kurt felt.

Kurt couldn't help but crack a smile. "Exactly," he agreed.

His smile faded. "Blaine, I am so sorry," he said again. "I never had any intention of reading those articles without your permission, but it was stupid of me to keep them. I should have thrown them out the minute I got them."

Blaine shook his head. "Things…got out of control yesterday," he admitted slowly, toying absently with the strap on his bag. "I was so upset and I blamed you for everything, but that wasn't quite fair. Kurt…"

Blaine trailed off, and Kurt watched him expectantly, not wanting to interrupt. That Blaine was taking some of the responsibility for an argument that Kurt felt was almost entirely his own fault was, honestly, more than he had expected, and he was eager to hear what Blaine had to say, now that he had the chance to think things over.

Until Blaine opened his mouth and smashed Kurt's heart into infinitesimal pieces: "I think we need to take a break for a little while."

The blood drained from Kurt's face, and his mind went blank. "You're breaking up with me?" he asked in a tiny, unrecognizable voice, not completely able to process what Blaine was suggesting.

Blaine's eyes went wide. "No!" he promised quickly, dropping his bag on the floor and gripping Kurt's shoulders. "Not for good, okay? Just for a week or two. So we can figure out what we're doing together, and how to fix things."

Kurt twined his hands into Blaine's sweater, fighting to keep his breathing under control. Blaine was breaking up with him, even if he wasn't calling it that, and he couldn't look Blaine in the eye or he'd start crying, _again_; how was it possible he still had any tears left in his body anymore?

Blaine was still talking, leaning into Kurt's touch and gently resting his forehead on Kurt's. "When we're good, we're _amazing _together, Kurt," he explained gently, his breath warm on Kurt's face. "You make me so happy, and I never thought—"

"Then why are you doing this?" Kurt interrupted before he could stop himself, his voice choked with unshed tears. "I don't—please don't do this."

Blaine reached up and stroked Kurt's cheek with his thumb, forcing Kurt to look into his eyes, and Kurt was startled to see that Blaine was crying.

"Because I don't want to lose you," Blaine confessed. "I don't. But the way we fight—the way I cling to you, the way you hide things from me—we can't keep doing this and pretend like it's not happening. If we don't take some time off and fix this, we're not going to last."

"Can't we work on it without breaking up?" Kurt protested, reaching out automatically and gently drying Blaine's face with his sleeve. "I just…_can't_. Without you."

Blaine's grip on his arm tightened. "Maybe you could," he acknowledged, "but I can't. All I want to do right now is to be your boyfriend and give in, because it's breaking my heart that I'm making you so unhappy. And nothing will change, that way. We need to do this, just for a little while. Please, Kurt."

Kurt felt a tear slide down his cheek, hitting Blaine's hand and running along the length of his thumb.

He had no idea what to do. The last thing he wanted to do was agree to a breakup, however temporary, and he knew if tried hard enough, he could probably get Blaine to change his mind. But if he pressured Blaine into backing down, it would only buy him time until Blaine broke up with him for real. Eventually, if he didn't do what Blaine was asking and try to work out their relationship issues, Blaine would figure out that Kurt wasn't good enough for him, and would find someone else who was.

He had to let Blaine go, even if it broke his heart.

And he had to do it quickly, because he had about two minutes of countenance left in him before breaking down in an emotional disintegration of world-ending proportions.

"I guess I don't have much of a choice," he conceded brokenly, trying to smile for Blaine and failing miserably. "Will you…can you just go, right now?"

Blaine looked at him, concerned. "Kurt," he began, but Kurt waved him off.

"I'm trying really hard to be okay with this, because it's what you want and I know it's only for a little while," he admitted, blinking rapidly as his vision started to swim. "But it's so hard to do when you're standing right in front of me, and I need to get it together before rehearsal."

He looked at Blaine. "Please?"

Slowly, Blaine nodded. "It's not what I want," he corrected softly. "I never want to hurt you. Ever. But I think that we need this."

Giving Kurt's arm one last squeeze, Blaine leaned in, gently kissing his cheek. "I'll see you at rehearsal," he promised sadly. "I love you."

Kurt closed his eyes, not able to watch as Blaine walked away.

* * *

><p>After sobbing wretchedly in the costume closet for a good ten minutes, Kurt took a detour to the nurse's office, claiming that his eyes were red and swollen from a glitter-related incident in the auditorium. His story was corroborated by his cardigan, which he had purposely upended a vial of loose glitter on, and the nurse gave him a gel icepack and a couple of painkillers. By the time the swelling had gone down and he was able to creep quietly in through the auditorium door, he was late for rehearsal, but at least he wouldn't make Blaine feel guilty by looking terrible.<p>

"Kurt, you look terrible. What happened?"

Kurt glanced over—Jesse was lounging in one of the seats in the second-to-last row.

Of course.

Kurt sniffed. "Thanks," he muttered, looking away. "And nothing. Why aren't you onstage with the others?"

The rest of the team was hard at work, stretching and loosening up.

For once, Kurt had absolutely no desire to join them.

"I was waiting for you," Jesse explained, lazily stretching his arms over his head before standing and joining Kurt in the aisle. "It's my first official day back at Carmel; I thought you'd want to celebrate by warming up with me, like old times."

Kurt tiredly raised an eyebrow. "You're back for good?" he asked, feigning interest so that Jesse wouldn't start questioning him as they walked toward the stage.

If Jesse noticed his lack of enthusiasm, he didn't let it bother him. "I quit New Directions yesterday in a rather spectacular fashion," he confided with a smirk. "There was quite the scene today. Come over after rehearsal and I'll tell you all about it."

Kurt, who wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep until Blaine decided that their relationship was fixed—oh God, he was going to cry again—was about to politely decline the offer, when Shelby called out his name.

"Kurt, what are you doing here?" she asked him, looking concerned. "Do you need a ride?"

Kurt stared, confused. His first, insane thought was that she had somehow heard about the breakup, but that was ridiculous, and wouldn't have been a valid excuse for missing rehearsal, in any case.

Shelby turned to Jesse. "Jesse, I need you to drive him to Lima Memorial Hospital," she instructed. "Ben and I will work with you all day tomorrow; we can go one more—"

"Wait, the hospital?" Kurt interrupted, forgetting his manners entirely and starting to panic. "Why? What's going on?"

Shelby paled. "They didn't—the office called here looking for you; when you weren't here on time, I thought they must have tracked you down already," she explained uneasily.

Kurt's hands were starting to shake. "I haven't seen anybody," he said weakly, "nobody told me anything. What is it?"

Shelby glanced at Jesse, before turning back to Kurt with a sad, sympathetic look that he had never seen on her face before.

"Kurt," she said quietly, "Sweetheart, it's your dad."

* * *

><p><em>Next chapter: a look into the mind of the elusive, enigmatic Jesse St. James.<em>


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25/more than 25. Math skillz, I has them.

Welcome to the most divisive chapter of them all. If you were concerned after the last one…this hot mess probably won't help. All I can tell you is that I'm posting chapters as fast as I can write them, and that I promise I have a very specifically plotted endgame in mind, one that doesn't involve car accidents or suicide attempts or retcon-ing anyone's age.

And as always, I don't own anything. Probably not even this chapter, since every sentence was like pulling teeth—my respect for anyone who writes Jesse St. James and does it well just skyrocketed.

* * *

><p>In his mind, Jesse St. James was on the Nationals stage in Los Angeles, having breezed through Regionals with flying colors. The spotlight was on him, and his voice rang out over the groundswell of harmonies from his teammates, who were dancing in the background. Every eye in the room was trained on him, entranced, as he cinched yet another National title for Vocal Adrenaline with his final, show-stopping number.<p>

And looked good doing it.

Ms. Foster, who taught the one class that wasn't a complete waste of Jesse's time, encouraged them all to use visualization techniques at least three times a week, explaining that picturing oneself working toward and achieving his goals was almost as predictive of success as actually going through the motions. Jesse had asked her why, if it was merely _almost _as good, didn't she encourage them to spend that time getting in more practice, instead?

She'd reminded him that thinking was an activity conducive to multitasking, while trying to eat or sleep or use the restroom while performing rarely ended well.

It was a rather convincing argument.

In his mental meditation, _Bohemian Rhapsody _was always his swan song; the final number of the competition that would stay, along with his name (Ryleigh was pitchy when nervous, hers would certainly be forgotten), in the minds of the judges and audience for years to come. It was the perfect number for him—brash, dramatic, youthful, complex, _long_—and despite what he may have hinted to Kurt, he'd never had any intention of giving it up; he'd merely suggested the possibility in order to witness Kurt's reaction, to make sure that the competitive drive he'd worked long and hard to cultivate in him hadn't completely gone to seed in his prolonged absence.

_Kurt. _Jesse glanced over at the pale specter of his friend in the passenger seat.

Jesse's offers to sing to him or buy him a latte for the road had been declined, and the long drive from Carmel to the hospital was being made even longer by the unnatural silence in the car. Jesse had originally left the radio on, but they'd barely left the school when Kurt had reached out and snapped the speakers off with more force than John Mellencamp had ever warranted, a fresh deluge of tears threatening to spill. He'd managed to control them, though, which Jesse was grateful for—when Kurt was _really _upset, he didn't do anything by halves, either becoming inconsolably hysterical or shutting down completely, and a stoic, unresponsive Kurt was a far better passenger, allowing Jesse to ignore him when it was necessary to concentrate on the road.

And with Ohio's crumbling infrastructure, it often was—and while dying tragically young in an accident would do wonders as far as cementing him in the public eye and helping him achieve a James Dean-like cult following were concerned, he had to admit that he wasn't quite at the point in his career where he felt confident taking such a drastic step. Yet.

Thinking about accidents and death and injury naturally led Jesse to think about the reason he was driving to the hospital in the first place. Burt Hummel wasn't his favorite person on the planet; it was impossible to discuss the arts with him, and Jesse always left Kurt's house with the lingering impression that Burt didn't think as much of him as his son did. Still, he was always nice enough to Jesse whenever he came to VA performances and was a good father to Kurt, and Jesse knew that if he died, Kurt would be devastated.

And even if becoming an orphan would make his personal biography at least three times as interesting, Jesse suspected that Kurt would find that fact a small comfort in the wake of his loss.

Despite the best efforts of the feed truck that monopolized the road in front of them for several mind-numbing miles, Jesse and Kurt eventually made it to the hospital unscathed. Knowing what a poorly-managed nightmare parking could be from his many Angela-related visits—and suspecting that Kurt might snap if he was forced to wait any longer to see his dad—Jesse pulled up in front of the main doors. "I'll come in and meet you inside after I find a place to park," he promised.

He grimly took in Kurt's haggard, but still unfortunately youthful, appearance. "Do you have your wallet with you?" he wanted to know.

Kurt blinked, frowning at the seeming non sequitur. "In my bag," he answered, sounding confused. "Why?"

Jesse ignored him, leaning over the console and fishing through Kurt's things until he found his leather wallet. Taking out Kurt's school I.D., he handed it over and dropped everything else back into Kurt's messenger bag. "You're Kurt Hummel, your dad's only immediate family," he stressed, shoving the bag under the seat. "You're a senior at Carmel High School, and you turned eighteen in September. Got it?"

Kurt looked at him blankly.

Jesse sighed. He adored Kurt, he really did, but his IQ plummeted when he was upset.

"If your dad's in any real trouble, they'll have tighter visiting restrictions," he explained patiently. "You were born in 1991, and you were called at school by your dad's coworker so that you could come straight to the hospital. If they ask to see your license, get panicky and upset when you can't find it—that shouldn't be too much of a stretch for you." He looked at Kurt appraisingly. "They still might not let you in," he warned, "you're far too baby-faced to really be eighteen. But…"

Jesse paused, thinking, before shaking his head. "No, never mind," he sighed. "I don't have the supplies to do facial hair on someone with your coloring. We'd better just take your chances."

* * *

><p>As he had expected, two of the three automatic gates leading into the parking garage were still out of order, and Jesse was forced to drive around to the back entrance, which was staffed by a greasy, pimpled employee who had to be reminded to stamp Jesse's parking pass with the time. It was an incredibly inefficient system, and by the time he made it into the hospital, asked the uniformed staffer at the front desk where she'd sent the last weirdly pretty, anemic-looking teenage boy who had come in, and rode the elevator to the cardiac ward on the third floor, it had been nearly fifteen minutes since he'd dropped Kurt off at the front doors.<p>

Jesse didn't know how many people in Lima had hospital-worthy heart problems on any given Tuesday—probably a lot, if the amount of fried food per capita on that godforsaken patch of dirt was any indication—but the waiting room across from the bank of elevators was mostly empty, and Kurt was nowhere to be seen. A quick peek into the men's room was enough to reassure him that Kurt hadn't hung himself in despair, and Jesse was just about to start discreetly checking individual rooms when he spotted Kurt at the end of the hall, tearfully conversing with a middle-aged woman in medical scrubs who was sporting a truly tragic home perm.

A weirdly familiar tragic home perm. Jesse snuck down the hall, trying to remain unnoticed as he crept close enough to listen in on the conversation.

"…recovering, but visiting hours…" the woman was saying, and Jesse closed his eyes in cynical disbelief, because _of course_ Kurt's dad would wait to have his heart attack until the week that his nurse could blow Jesse's cover. It was the type of scripted coincidence that helped reinforce his belief in the cinematic nature of the universe—or, at least, of his own existence—and Jesse would have found it gratifying if it hadn't thrown such a wrench in his plans.

Unless.

Jesse observed her critically. Besides her tragically outdated hair, the nurse also had slight bags under her eyes, and her scrubs were somewhat wrinkled, as if she had stood up and sat back down several times since the start of her shift. If she'd been at the hospital for more than a couple of hours, as her appearance seemed to indicate, it was incredibly unlikely that she'd talked to her giant moronic buffoon of a son since Jesse's daytrip to McKinley, and he'd still be able to use her to his (and Kurt's) advantage without her threatening to call security.

And, in any case, Jesse could hardly make the situation much worse through his efforts—Kurt hadn't been taken to see his dad yet, and he'd had a major head start on Jesse, which meant that he couldn't be doing particularly well on his own.

Schooling his features into a look of deep concern, Jesse closed the gap between himself and Kurt, calling out to him when he was a few yards away. "Any news?" he asked gently, glancing at the nurse before looking back at Kurt. And then pulling an Oscar-worthy double take. "Mrs. Hudson?" he asked incredulously, adopting a 'surprised-but-pleased' expression that had proven effective in the past. "I didn't know you worked here."

Kurt shot him a confused look, and Jesse delicately tread on his foot in warning as he held his hand out to Mrs. Hudson, who, likewise, was looking at him curiously.

"I don't know if you remember me," he offered humbly. "I'm Jamie, a friend of Rachel Berry's. We met a while ago, at one of your son's basketball games."

Whether or not the oaf had told his mother about the day's happenings yet, it was extremely unlikely that he'd never bothered to mention Jesse at home, no doubt twisting the details to portray him in an unflattering light. Jesse rarely used an alias, preferring that all of his public appearances be traceable back to him, but even he could recognize when he was walking a fine line.

And whether it was the fake name or the dreaded middle-age memory decline, Jesse could sense that Mrs. Hudson—Carole, according to her name tag—was having trouble placing him (only the fourth time in his recollection that such a thing had ever occurred, and only the first time he was grateful for it). Still, like he was counting on, Carole smiled politely, if skeptically, as she shook his hand.

"Jamie," she said slowly, as if testing the name out with her mouth. "Of course. I remember your face, but I'm not always good with names; sorry about that."

Sensing that he shouldn't push his luck, Jesse smiled even more warmly than before. "It's been a couple of months," he graciously allowed. "But I'm sorry, I'm interrupting—is Burt going to be okay?" Kurt let out a choked sob, and Jesse wrapped an arm around him possessively, continuing to look at Carole with his most hopeful eyes.

Which were wasted on an unappreciative audience, apparently, as Carole was looking at Kurt sympathetically. "I was just telling Kurt that, while his dad made it through the surgery and the doctors are optimistic, he's still being closely monitored in the I.C.U., and the visitor allowances are stricter there," she explained, laying a hand on Kurt's shoulder and squeezing it gently.

Jesse did the same to Kurt's waist. "That's excellent," he replied, surprised by how little effort it took to sound relieved by the news. "But Kurt, wh—wait, we didn't miss visiting hours, did we?"

Carole's mouth twisted. "No, the I.C.U. admits visitors until 6:00," she answered, still looking at Kurt instead of Jesse. "But hospital policy says that only family members are allowed in, and that they have to be at least eighteen."

Jesse suppressed a sigh, hoping that Kurt had remembered his instructions and hadn't already blown it. "Oh, all right," he said slowly. "So…I can't go in with Kurt?"

Carole opened her mouth to reply, but Kurt beat her to it. "I don't have my license with me," he told Jesse, his teary eyes red-rimmed, "and my school I.D. doesn't have my birthdate on it."

"September 7th, 1991," Jesse recited easily, rubbing Kurt's back soothingly and slightly raising his estimation of Kurt's acting skills. "I helped Burt throw your birthday party."

That was untrue, of course, but evidently the memory of his dad on his last birthday was a painful one, because Kurt's face crumpled and he pressed his forehead to Jesse's chest, breathing deeply as he struggled to regain his composure.

"And you won't let him in without it?" Jesse questioned Carole, who looked torn over the situation.

"We're supposed to confirm age before we let anyone into the I.C.U.," she explained sadly. Jesse closed his eyes briefly.

"I could drive to Kurt's house and see if I can find his license," he offered slowly, "but if I don't find it right away, I might not make it back before visiting hours are over." _Or at all, _he mused silently, _since it doesn't exist._ "Isn't there any other way we can do this?" he wanted to know. "I can vouch for him that he's eighteen, or I can call one of his teachers and have her talk to you—Kurt's a very gifted student." Shelby wasn't in the habit of lying for her students, but Jesse was confident that she'd do whatever it took to help Kurt, given the circumstances.

Carole wavered.

"Please," Jesse begged again, remembering something that Rachel had mentioned about Bigfoot Hudson in one of her uncomfortably complementary rants on the distasteful subject, "Burt's a single parent, and Kurt's his only child. I'll wait outside and take him home at 6:00, and we'll make sure to find his license tonight and bring it when we visit tomorrow. Just please, let me get the school on the phone for you so that Kurt can see his dad tonight."

It was the closest Jesse had come to pleading since his head-turning performance as the title character in _Oliver! _back in the fifth grade. And when Carole reached out to rub Kurt's shoulder again, dipping her head slightly to meet his eyes, Jesse knew that it had worked.

"What's your teacher's name, honey?" she asked gently, handing Kurt a tissue from the pocket of her scrubs.

Kurt took it gratefully and dabbed at his damp cheeks. "Ms. Corcoran, at Carmel High School," he answered, blinking at her hopefully.

She smiled comfortingly. "If anyone gives you trouble for being in there, tell them that I spoke to your school and that they confirmed your age, okay?" she requested.

Jesse squeezed his waist, and Kurt nodded, smile brief and watery. Carole nodded back.

"Okay, then," she said again, "let's go see your dad."

* * *

><p>If there was a hell—and Jesse was certain that there was, since people who left their cell phones on in the theatre had to get their comeuppance <em>somehow<em>—it was sure to resemble a hospital waiting room. The magazines were old, boring, and probably diseased; the chairs were slightly uncomfortable (just reasonably padded enough to discourage outright complaints, which, again, Jesse would have admired if it weren't such a literal pain in his ass); the television mounted on the wall was silently broadcasting the same boring news stories over and over again. After Kurt had gone to visit Burt, Jesse had briefly left the hospital in order to pick up a venti mocha latte from the Starbucks down the road, and had seriously considered staying there until the end of visiting hours just to avoid having to stare at the decrepit yellow wallpaper until his eyes bled. In the end, however, he'd grudgingly trudged back to the cardiac ward—if he was playing the role of the devoted, trustworthy friend for the hospital staff, leaving Kurt alone with his extremely ill father might cause them to question his sincerity.

And then Kurt, who would surely crack under questioning in his fragile state.

The other occupants of the waiting room had presumably gone to visit their acquaintances (or had found a clever way to slip away without looking like a complete jerk that hadn't yet occurred to him), leaving Jesse alone with his thoughts and his coffee.

His thoughts, his coffee, and a faint, egg-like smell that he occasionally caught a whiff of over the sterile hospital aroma.

The first few times he'd noticed the stench, he'd taken a quick look at his clothing and the bottom of his shoes, thinking that there might have been some egg residue clinging to him somewhere—he'd gone straight from McKinley to Carmel, and hadn't had the chance to change his outfit. His clothes were spotless, however, and there were no trays full of hospital food anywhere, and even a brief examination of the room's air vents proved to be fruitless. Jesse liked to think of himself as a down-to-earth person, not particularly prone to sensory malfunction, but as it stood, the only logical explanation he could come up with for a pervasive scent in the room that didn't seem to exist in reality was his own imagination; possibly his subconscious method of coping with his repressed guilt over his earlier actions.

Jesse paused mid-sip.

Carefully, he put down his coffee.

The idea that the nagging, queasy feeling in his stomach could actually be _guilt_, rather than hospital-induced nausea, was a fascinating one. Jesse was usually so sure of himself, so certain that his actions in any given situation were justified, that he couldn't remember ever truly experiencing guilt before—only watered-down substitutes, such as regret, or dissatisfaction. Still, if anything was going to trigger a more vivid emotional response, the memory of the look on Rachel's face before he cracked the egg on her forehead—waiting for the blow to fall and hoping that it wouldn't—was certainly a contender.

He'd known, of course, that Vocal Adrenaline was planning on targeting Rachel in particular after their strike on New Directions the day before. That was simply the way they operated whenever they took on a rival choir, and to ask for an exemption for Rachel would have been tantamount to declaring his allegiance to her, rather than to his own team. The only way he could have intervened to save her from the season's elected Assault Squad would have been to reveal her relationship to Shelby, which he had known without asking that Shelby wouldn't allow.

At the same time, however, Jesse hadn't gone back to McKinley intending to actually egg Rachel himself—while he knew that she was resilient enough to cope with a hazing from his choir, his direct participation, given how recently their breakup had occurred, would have been…needlessly cruel. Even when Rachel came running out into the parking lot, only to be met by her mortal enemies—a moment that harbored a certain elegance and dramaticism that the two of them thrived on—Jesse hadn't consciously made a decision to throw his egg.

In the end, Jesse couldn't be sure what exactly made him do it, only that when everyone had looked at him to see what he was going to do, he'd been filled with a sudden…anger, that he couldn't explain and that had quickly vanished after he'd acted.

He wasn't proud of what he had done, but he couldn't undo it. All he could do was sit in the stale, sterile, lifeless waiting room, stewing in his own (apparent) guilt.

Jesse took another sip of coffee, pushing his newfound emotion out of his mind with laser-like precision.

With any luck, Kurt would want to leave early.

* * *

><p>Luck failed to take Jesse's wishes into account, and Kurt didn't come out of the I.C.U. until 6:05, by which time Jesse was considering having himself admitted to the hospital just to see if the doctors could give him anything to cure acute boredom. Still, he managed a graceful smile when Kurt came into the room, looking terrible and exhausted and thoroughly cried out.<p>

"He still hasn't woken up from surgery," Kurt reported, his voice dangerously hoarse for someone about to compete in a show choir competition. "The doctor said that his vitals are improving, though, and that they'll probably move him to a regular room in the morning if he keeps getting better at this rate."

Jesse couldn't help but wonder why Kurt had felt the need to stay so long, if Burt hadn't even been alert enough to know he was there, but he refrained from asking—Kurt could be oversensitive at the best of times, and any day involving the hospital was automatically disqualified as such. "I guess we don't need to find you an emergency fake I.D., then," he mused instead, earning a small smile from Kurt that soothed him a little. He grabbed his empty coffee cup and tossed it into a nearby trash can. "Let's get out of here before we catch some deadly virus," he suggested, shrugging back into his coat.

Kurt hesitated, paling. "I don't—my house…" he stammered, biting his lip in a way that looked painful.

Even if he wouldn't ask, Jesse had known him long enough to guess what the problem was. "I missed rehearsal for you, and just spent my extra practice time fusing with a hospital room chair," he pointed out dryly. "I think you owe me dinner and breakfast, at least."

Kurt nodded with relief, clearly grateful to Jesse and his ever-present powers of deduction, and the two of them finally left the hospital, hours after their arrival.

* * *

><p>Despite the fact that he had seen his dad and had spoken at length with his doctor, Kurt's nerves continued to fray on the way home, so much so that Jesse ended up going through the drive-thru to pick up two grilled chicken salads for dinner, rather than allow him out of the car (or worse, allow him to use the stove). He understandingly took Kurt's keys and unlocked the front door when Kurt's hands were shaking too badly to do it, and he reminded Kurt twice to take off his coat once they were inside without a single judgmental remark.<p>

When he had finished eating and Kurt's dinner still remained virtually untouched, however, Jesse decided that enough was enough. Stripping Kurt's bathroom of all sharp objects (and the blow-dryer, just in case), Jesse filled up the bathtub with hot water and bubbles, and handed Kurt a towel.

"Wash your hair while you're in there," he suggested amiably. "And don't drown yourself. My eighteenth birthday isn't until next month—I wouldn't be able to visit you if you ended up in the hospital, too."

Kurt rolled his eyes and shut the door in Jesse's face—the most normal thing he had done all day.

Stealing one of Kurt's most comfortable sweaters in retaliation, Jesse padded up the stairs in Kurt's slippers and began searching the Hummel's kitchen for something he could force Kurt to eat. Besides the half-empty can of soup in the refrigerator, his options were limited; Kurt actually enjoyed cooking, and the amount of ingredients (as opposed to actual food) in the freezer and cabinets reflected that. Upon finding the coffee, however, Jesse had an idea, and quickly made a pot of decaf while filling Kurt's blender with ice, chocolate hemp powder, strawberries, and a dash of Splenda. When the coffee finished brewing, he added it and whipped the ingredients together, pouring the resulting frothy mixture into a mug and dumping in too much cinnamon, the way Kurt always did to anything he drank.

Kurt was out of the bathroom by the time Jesse made it back downstairs, and was curled up on his bed in a pair of oversized pajamas. A threadbare flannel shirt that probably belonged to his dad was wrapped around him like a blanket, and Jesse had to stifle the urge to sit down next to him and stroke his hair, the way he used to do.

"Drink this," he ordered instead, offering the mug to Kurt as he sat down on Kurt's desk chair.

Kurt didn't move. "I'm not hungry," he replied hollowly, his eyes distant and staring at nothing.

Jesse, who had been expecting him to say that, didn't blink. "I know you're not," he acknowledged. "Drink it anyway. It's high in protein and low in fiber, so it'll fill you up without making you feel full. And don't even try to tell me that you don't like it—I made it for you last year when you had to have your wisdom teeth taken out."

"And then I puked half an hour later," Kurt reminded Jesse, annoyed but finally looking at him. "I _said_ I'm not hungry."

Jesse smirked. "That was the Vicodin, not the drink," he pointed out. "And I don't care if you're not hungry. If you don't drink it, your metabolism will shut down, and you'll get fat—do you really want to deal with obesity, on top of everything else?"

Kurt shot him a look of pure loathing, and Jesse raised his free hand defensively. "You can get mad at me, I don't care," he responded mildly. "Anger is a healthy display of grief. But you have to admit that you're not in your right mind right now, and that I'm a much better judge of what you need at the moment than you are." He paused, waiting to see if Kurt had anything to say to that.

Kurt remained silent.

"And if you don't drink at least half of it, I'll tell the next nurse how old you really are," Jesse added.

Kurt sat up and grabbed the mug out of Jesse's hand. "I hate you," he muttered, glaring at Jesse before starting to drink.

Jesse's smile remained frozen on his face. "Words hurt," he chastised long-sufferingly.

While Kurt sipped from his mug—slowly, as if he were childishly trying to prove a point—Jesse got up and slowly walked around the room, stopping to look at the various pictures Kurt had on display. Most of them were of people or places that Jesse recognized, and he himself was in several of them—group shots of Vocal Adrenaline; one from Kurt's last birthday; one that was taken the week they'd started dating. He ignored himself in that picture—his hair had been particularly awkward that month, and he hated to be reminded of it—and instead focused on Kurt.

Kurt had been decent-looking even at the start of high school, but it was obvious how much he had grown since then, both in stature and in appeal. And Jesse was certain that the trend would continue. Kurt was one of those people who only got better looking with age, and Jesse had long since decided to use his influence and fame to try and get Kurt a modeling contract with a cosmetics company, should music not work out for him by the time he hit his late twenties.

One picture, however, stood out from the others. "Isn't this one usually upstairs?" Jesse asked Kurt, holding up the old picture of the Hummel family at Burt's garage that was taken before Kurt's mom had died.

When Kurt saw which photo Jesse was talking about, he put his drink down on the desk and reached for it. "The original is," he explained, carefully taking the framed shot from Jesse. "This is a copy; Blaine had it digitally restored for me for Christmas. I was going to put it upstairs, but Dad said that I should keep it."

His eyes began to tear up for the billionth time that day, and Jesse pursed his lips. "Of course, Blaine," he commented, slightly irritated—his feelings about Blaine were mixed, but it had been refreshing, going so long in Kurt's company without hearing his name mentioned every other sentence.

He took the picture back from Kurt, gently putting it down on the dresser with the others. "I assume that he's coming over to take care of you in your hour of need?" he asked with a dryness that was probably lost on Kurt, given his emotional state.

Kurt surprised him, however, by folding his arms protectively across his chest. "We broke up," he answered shortly. "For now, anyway. He found your envelope."

Jesse was honestly taken aback by the revelation; Kurt usually make it a point to tell him when his breakups occurred, and in what way they were Jesse's fault. "Wow," he replied, exhaling slowly. "I—" He paused, not quite sure what to say—he knew that social protocol for the situation suggested that he offer his condolences, but he wasn't sorry, and he knew that Kurt wouldn't believe him anyway.

The envelope, though; _that _was interesting. "I can't believe you kept it," he said instead, shaking his head a little in disbelief. "I wasn't sure that you would."

Kurt's eyes narrowed, burning with a fire that had been completely absent all day. "Well, I shouldn't have," he retorted, "but I did, and he found it in my desk."

Jesse rolled his eyes. "Well, no wonder," he remarked, suppressing a sigh. "Kurt, if you make it as a performer, you're going to need to invest in a better hiding spot for your incriminating paperwork. That's like, Celebrity 101, right after 'No nudity that isn't cleared by your agent'."

Kurt turned away, his rigid body language indicating that he clearly wasn't in the mood for a lecture, and Jesse tried to think of something comforting to say to him before he started crying again. "If Blaine didn't want to know what you were hiding, he shouldn't have been snooping," he offered, reaching out and prying Kurt's fingers away from his pajama top, which was wrinkling under his grip. "If he found something he didn't like, it was his own fault."

"It's not his fault," Kurt disagreed stubbornly, yanking his hands away from Jesse's and turning back around. "It's mine. You shouldn't have given me the articles, and I shouldn't have kept them."

That was illogical, and Jesse told him so. "If he had told you the truth to begin with, instead of keeping secrets from you for months, you wouldn't have needed to read anything in the first place," he pointed out, raising an eyebrow at Kurt and waiting for what was sure to be another morally scintillating argument.

Instead, Kurt smacked him on the chest. _Hard._

"Stop it!" he demanded, eyes flooding with tears as he scowled at Jesse. "Why are you being such a jerk about him?"

He hit Jesse again with a growl of frustration, the blow landing on his sternum, and Jesse quickly grabbed his wrists and held on tightly before he could do it a third time. "I just want what's best for you," he told Kurt, who was struggling to get out of his grasp. "That's what I've always wanted."

"No you don't," Kurt spat, jerking his right arm so hard in an attempt to free his hand again that Jesse was genuinely concerned that he might injure himself, "you don't. You want me to be _alone_. Well, I'm alone now, okay?"

The tears in Kurt's eyes had begun streaming down his face, and Jesse released his left wrist in order to wipe them away with his thumb. "Kurt," he began.

"Blaine left, and I'm alone," Kurt interrupted, not showing any sign that he had even noticed Jesse trying to speak. He had stopped struggling, but was shaking under Jesse's hands in an effort to keep himself together.

"Kurt," Jesse tried again, "that's not—"

"Blaine left, and I needed him," Kurt said again, his voice strangled with tears. "My mom left, my dad might not make it, and I'll be completely alone. Everybody leaves me, why does—"

Kurt broke off with a choked sob, and Jesse quickly pulled him in and held him as he broke down in earnest.

Jesse…had no idea what to do. He had never seen Kurt cry before, _really, _trulycry, and it was affecting him oddly, making him feel panicky and vaguely helpless in a way that he wasn't used to and didn't like. Wary of making things worse—Kurt never lost an opportunity to imply that he was emotionally handicapped—Jesse continued to hold him silently, letting Kurt soak his sweater with tears as he waited for him to wear himself out. It was what experts recommended that parents do with babies; surely it worked for people, as well.

When Kurt was still sobbing a minute later, though, clinging to him like a life raft, Jesse abandoned the passive approach and stroked Kurt's hair softly, pressing his lips to Kurt's forehead. "I'm not leaving," he said soothingly, tightening his arm around Kurt's back and pulling him in closer. "I'm still here, I'm not going anywhere. Shh, don't cry."

It must have at least resembled what Kurt needed to hear, because slowly, he began to settle down. Jesse kept murmuring softly, gently rocking him back and forth, even after his arms started to feel heavy and sluggish from the effort of supporting most of Kurt's weight.

Finally, Kurt was quiet, his crying and shaking reduced to the occasional shudder or sniffle. "Thank you," he managed, and Jesse loosened his grip on him slightly, pulling back just far enough to brush Kurt's hair back into place.

"You're a mess," he commented mildly, gratified that he had figured out what to do. "Come here."

Kurt leaned in, letting Jesse gently dry his flushed, damp face. His eyes were big and wet, watching Jesse as he worked, and it struck Jesse as they made eye contact how little they had changed over the past year and a half. How Kurt's eyes were still beautiful and expressive, looking to Jesse for guidance and direction.

And how, even if Kurt had grown taller and thinner and more confident, it was clear to Jesse how much he was hurting, and how much he still needed Jesse around, in the end.

Closing the slight gap in between them, Jesse kissed him softly on the mouth.

Kurt's gasp of surprise was muffled but audible, and the expression on his face when he pulled away was pure confusion. "Jesse, w-what—what are you doing?" he stammered, not letting go of Jesse's shirt.

Jesse tilted his head. "What does it look like?" he asked simply, not mocking Kurt over his obliviousness, for once.

Slowly, Kurt shook his head. "I can't," he told Jesse, biting his lip. "Blaine—"

"Left you," Jesse reminded him, keeping his voice soothing so as not to upset Kurt again. Carefully, he let his fingers slide down to the small of Kurt's back, gently tracing circles into his skin. "He left you, Kurt."

Kurt's face fell, and Jesse sighed. "Listen to me," he requested patiently, leaning over slightly in order to catch Kurt's eyes. "I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to, and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean, all right? Tell me to go, and I'll go."

Kurt didn't answer.

Jesse took a small step closer, his legs brushing lightly against Kurt's. "But we're so good together," he reminded Kurt softly, "and I care about you, and I want to take care of you while you're hurting. Let me help you get through this, Kurt. I won't leave you, I promise."

Stroking Kurt's cheek, Jesse leaned in a second time, pressing his lips to Kurt's.

This time, Kurt kissed him back.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26/?30. Or, as I've been calling it, The 10,000 Word Emotional Explosion. On a related note, **Warnings** from chapters 4 & 10 apply here. If you've been fine so far, I'm sure you'll be fine again. If not, message me and I'll tell you which parts to skip.

So…there were a lot of feels after that last chapter, and I had a big, heartfelt paragraph planned to address some of the various responses. But it's almost 1:00am, and I'd like to edit this now so that I can post it tomorrow, so it basically boils down to this: 1.) If you were awesome, thanks for being awesome! 2.) If you were not awesome, please keep in mind that I don't actually dictate canon, nor did I sleep with your mother, so kindly dial it down a notch. 3.) I know the last few chapters have been a bit rocky and messy and unpretty (as life is, on occasion), and that I'm asking you to take an awful lot on faith with the plot twists. All I can say to that, without giving away any spoilers, is that if you're still having trouble by the end of the next chapter, come talk to me. I'm not really…or at all…qualified to provide counsel, but I have vodka.

That was probably longer than the heartfelt version. Disclaimer, etc.

* * *

><p>That night, Blaine picked at his chicken and roasted potatoes, ignoring the worried glances his mother kept shooting his way. The meal was one of his favorites, and while objectively he was sure that it was just as delicious as always, his stomach was twisted into knots and everything tasted wrong in his mouth, sapping any desire to eat that he may have otherwise had.<p>

Or not had—Kurt hadn't shown up for rehearsal that afternoon.

If anyone else had noticed his absence, they hadn't said anything. The whole team had been buzzing with excitement between numbers, whispering about Regionals and Jesse and some escalating conflict with the competition (something about eggs and slashed tires that Blaine didn't know, or particularly care, about) with such fervor that Blaine couldn't have gotten a word in edgewise even if he had wanted to. As it had stood then, he hadn't wanted to—most of his energy had been spent trying to watch all of the doors into the auditorium, hoping for a glimpse of Kurt, while dancing and singing and smiling well enough to avoid getting yelled at.

He wasn't sure he'd done a particularly good job, but Shelby, looking almost as distracted as he felt, hadn't called him out on it.

Kurt's Navigator was still in the parking lot when rehearsal finally ended, and Blaine's slightly panicked search of all the bathrooms, closets, and storage rooms near the auditorium came to an abrupt end when it occurred to him to ask the security guards if they'd seen him. They had, as it turned out; Kurt had left nearly two hours before with someone else. Which eased Blaine's worries, at least, that something bad had happened to him, or that he was still somewhere at Carmel, trying and failing to pull himself together after asking Blaine to leave him alone.

However, it didn't do anything for Blaine's increasingly overwhelming guilt—the look on Kurt's face when Blaine explained that he was temporarily breaking up with him was one that he never wanted to see again, much less be the cause of, and the idea that Kurt was so upset that he'd purposely skipped rehearsal (a Kurt Hummel first, as far as he knew) and had had to call his dad or one of his non-Vocal Adrenaline friends to drive him home…

If it had been possible to melt into the floor with shame, Blaine would have done it a thousand times over.

Intellectually, he knew he'd done the right thing. That didn't make the consequences any less painful, though.

"Blaine?"

Blaine's head snapped up, the tines of his fork scraping across his plate with a discordant shriek. Both of his parents were staring at him with concerned looks on their faces, which meant that they'd probably tried to get his attention more than a couple of times already. _Great. _"What?" he asked calmly, looking back and forth between them, not even sure which parent had said his name.

His father was the one to speak up. "Blaine, is everything all right?" he asked, one hand absently crumpling his napkin. "You seem a little…"

He paused, searching for the right word. "Distracted," he offered finally. Blaine's mother nodded in agreement, watching him a little too closely.

For a moment, Blaine considered telling them the truth—yes, he was distracted; no, everything wasn't all right; and could they please make everything better, like they did when he was little and they could do anything, because he had no idea what he was supposed to do and it _sucked_.

In the end, he came to his senses. "I'm just tired," he lied instead, "and I think I might be getting sick."

His mother fussed over him for a few minutes, offering crackers and medicine and tea, clearly relieved to have a specific, tangible problem to deal with. His dad didn't look as convinced, but he agreed with Blaine's mother when she suggested that he go upstairs and take a bath, and that maybe he ought to go to bed early. Grateful for the proffered escape, Blaine excused himself from the table, dumping his plate in the sink and fleeing up the stairs and into his room.

With the door closed and locked behind him, Blaine let out a sigh of…not relief, exactly. It wasn't that he didn't want to confess everything to his parents, or that he didn't want their help or comfort—he really, really did. Even though it was impossible for them to fix things between him and Kurt (not to mention that his boyfriend, grandmother, and therapist were the real people responsible for any progress he'd made toward resolving his issues, not them), he still wanted their love and attention; still craved that unique sense of security that came from being hugged by his parents, from being told that things couldn't be as bad as they seemed and that everything would be better in the morning. And things _had_ been getting better between them lately, so much so that Blaine was pretty sure that, if he opened up to them about what was wrong, they'd at least try to be supportive of him.

That was the sentimental part of his mind, however. The rational part of him knew that not only had he not earned their comfort and support—at least, not the kind that he wanted—but that they wouldn't know where to start if he asked them for it. Dumping a relationship, all of the complications between him and Kurt, and a not-so-straightforward breakup on them all at once would not only be unfair of him to do, but it would be overwhelming for them (not to mention a pointblank admission that he'd been lying to them for months, which would definitely be enough to make his mother cry, at least).

Whether he wanted to admit everything to his parents or not, Blaine was on his own.

There was only so much his parents could have done, in any case. It was mostly his own fault (and Kurt's) that he felt as awful as he did—even if his intentions toward Kurt had been good, it was obvious that Blaine had really hurt him.

And Blaine couldn't help but think that, if he had just tried a little bit harder, he could have thought of a better solution.

Laying down on his bed and closing his eyes, Blaine pictured Kurt—not the Kurt from that afternoon, pale and upset and the source of Blaine's anger and hurt, but sweet, savvy, confident Kurt; the one that he knew best and completely adored. What would that Kurt, _his _Kurt, say if he knew what Blaine was thinking and feeling?

The answer came almost immediately: in his mind's eye, Kurt rolled his eyes at Blaine, smiling. _"I can see why you were such a big hit in the musicals at your old school," _he informed Blaine, _"you're being a little overdramatic right now. Calm down before you hurt yourself, all right? I'm momentarily devastated, but I'll get over it. Go to sleep; stop thinking so hard about everything."_

Imaginary Kurt raised an eyebrow. _"And maybe do something nice for me tomorrow," _he added with a smirk. _"Just in case."_

Blaine went through the motions of getting ready for bed, feeling a little bit better by the time he switched off his lamp and curled up under the covers. His mind's manifestation of Kurt—for all that it might be his subconscious trying to cheer him up—was right: he _was _working himself up over, if not nothing, a situation that probably wasn't as bad as he was making it out to be. He hadn't actually talked to Kurt since their scene in the hallway after school, and so he was assuming the worst about how he was feeling. As soon as he saw for himself in the morning that Kurt was fine (or as fine as he could be, given the circumstances), he'd likely be able to tone down the melodrama to a more acceptable level. He could even get up early enough to stop and buy Kurt coffee on the way to school—something that Kurt did for him all the time. It was a favor that Blaine rarely returned, since his drive to Carmel was so much longer, but it would be worth waking up early if it meant that he could do something nice for Kurt, something that would show him that even though they weren't together, Blaine still loved him.

Rolling over and grabbing his phone, Blaine reset his alarm to go off an hour earlier than usual. Instead of dropping it back onto his nightstand, however, he tapped at the buttons, scrolling through the pictures until he found the one he wanted: Kurt, taking a break during one of his many practice sessions for his Academy audition, eyes closed and smile unaffected as he lounged on Blaine's bed. His body looked loose and relaxed, and Blaine couldn't help but smile at how deceptive his appearance had turned out to be—the second Kurt heard the sound of his picture being taken, his eyes had snapped open and he'd flown at Blaine, tackling him in an effort to steal his phone and delete the picture. Blaine had tossed the device out of arm's reach and rolled Kurt back onto his back, kissing him deeply and fiercely until Kurt had forgotten—or at least pretended to forget—about it, and the picture lived on.

Eventually, finally, Blaine was able to fall asleep. The phone remained clutched in his hand, and he didn't dream that night.

* * *

><p>Kurt's car was, once again, still in the parking lot when Blaine arrived at school the next morning, coffee and raspberry scone in hand, but Kurt himself was nowhere to be seen. Sasha, whom Blaine flagged down in the hallway between second and third period, hadn't heard from him either.<p>

"He wasn't in English this morning, either," she mentioned offhandedly as she wove her way down the hall, Blaine following close behind. "Which was bad news for our group, since he and I are pretty much the only ones who can string together a sentence at all, let alone before 8:00 in the morning."

When Blaine asked her to call Kurt and check on him, she gave him a weird look, clearly wanting to know why he wasn't doing it himself. He shrugged in response, hoping she'd take his silence as answer enough—he wasn't sure he could, or wanted to, explain that Kurt might not be in the mood to talk to him, of all people.

Sasha's curious expression turned to a frown at his lack of an explanation, but she fished her phone out of her purse anyway, ducking into the girl's bathroom to avoid getting caught by a teacher.

"Straight to voicemail," she reported to Blaine a minute later, pursing her lips at Blaine's slumped shoulders. "I don't know what you did, kiddo, but if I were you, I'd just apologize and get it over with."

She was gone before Blaine could decide whether or not to protest.

* * *

><p>Blaine was so distracted during his next class that, after getting hit in the chest twice with the basketball because of his inattention, Coach Daniels benched him for the rest of the period, wondering out loud if he was getting sick. Watching the game, which became markedly more heated in his absence, wasn't enough to occupy him either, though, and Blaine found his thoughts again and again returning to Kurt.<p>

Kurt wasn't the best student in their year by any stretch of the imagination, but he _was_ a good student and he worked hard—a lot harder than the majority of their teammates did. It wasn't like him to skip school, especially on a rehearsal day, when even the students who had stuntmen attending all of their classes had to be at Carmel for over half of the school day in order to participate in the afternoon's extracurriculars. It _was_ possible that Kurt had gotten sick, or that the amount of stress he was under had come to a head, and Mr. Hummel had forced him to take a day off in order to preserve his mental health.

The more Blaine dwelled on it though, the more Sasha's idea, that Kurt had skipped school in order to avoid him, seemed plausible. Until she'd mentioned it, Blaine hadn't even thought about it as a possibility—Kurt might be upset, might not want to talk to him, but he wouldn't purposely miss classes and rehearsal just so he could more easily ignore Blaine.

But then again, Blaine remembered darkly, he hadn't always been right when it came to knowing what Kurt would or wouldn't do.

* * *

><p>Even though Blaine was unsettled by the idea that he was almost hoping that Kurt was out of school because he was sick, he took better notes than usual during History—if Kurt was indeed talking to him after the day before, he'd probably want a copy. Class dragged on without Kurt, though, and his absence was especially noticeable when his empty seat was directly in front of Blaine.<p>

Five minutes before the bell was scheduled to ring, Blaine didn't care anymore—at lunch, he was calling Kurt's cell and house phones, and maybe even looking up the phone number for Mr. Hummel's tire shop on the library computers. He'd spend the whole period trying, if he had to, until someone answered and let him know that Kurt was all right. If it turned out that Kurt really was avoiding him…well, he'd deal with that if it came up, but it would be worth it just to know that he could stop fluctuating unpredictably between worry and disappointment. He stared at the clock, willing time to move just a little bit faster.

Mrs. Jennings, who had just wrapped up her lecture for the day, seemed to have other plans. "These are the guidelines for your country projects," she explained, picking up a large stack of packets from her desk and standing up. "The requirements for the five sections I went over yesterday are written down in more detail, and your assigned countries, partners, and final presentation dates are listed on the last page."

She walked along the front of the classroom, passing several copies to the first student in each row to hand back. "You have rest of today's class to look over everything with your partner," she continued. "We'll take fifteen minutes at the start of the period tomorrow to discuss any questions that you might have."

The girl who sat in front of Kurt turned around with the last two packets, and Blaine leaned over his desk, stretching his arm out as far as he could in order to take them.

"Blaine," Mrs. Jennings called over the chatter in the room, before he could even settle back down into his seat, "come up here for a second?"

Startled, Blaine tucked the packets—one for himself, one for Kurt—into his notebook and got up, weaving his way up the aisle (ducking around several students joining their partners and shoving their desks together) to the front of the classroom.

Mrs. Jennings took Blaine's elbow once he reached her desk, gently leading him to the doorway where nobody else could overhear them. "Blaine, I've paired you and Kurt together for the project," she murmured quietly, her face uncharacteristically serious. "I didn't hear about yesterday's events until this morning, but I don't want you to worry; we can certainly make some adjustments in the requirements for you two."

Blaine's mouth didn't fall open in shock, but it was a close call. How was it even possible that people, including the _teachers_, already knew what had happened between him and Kurt the day before? And since when did student relationships become a factor in what work they were assigned in class? Clearly, working with Kurt on their project was going to be a little more difficult (and emotionally loaded) than it would have been the week before, but Blaine couldn't see how that was anyone else's business but theirs.

Mrs. Jennings was frowning sadly. "Obviously given Mr. Hummel's heart attack, Kurt's going to be missing some school," she continued, ignoring the disbelief that Blaine was sure was still showing on his face, "so you'll be missing your partner for a little while."

Blaine nodded, his incredulity dissipating with the explanation—Mr. Hummel having a heart attack was a much more likely reason to adjust a—

Mrs. Jennings's words suddenly sank in, and Blaine felt the blood draining from his face.

"Is he—I…Kurt," he stammered helplessly, grabbing the doorframe beside him and gripping it tightly—Mrs. Jennings hadn't mentioned whether or not Burt was alive; if Kurt had just lost his only family; if—

"I don't know much more than you do, I'm afraid," Mrs. Jennings told him, glancing at the other students as they continued working noisily, completely oblivious to Blaine's distress. "Kurt's uncle was the one to contact the school, and I'm not sure if he said how long they expected Mr. Hummel to be in the hospital; only that Kurt would be absent for at least the rest of the week. Now, with that in mind…"

Mrs. Jennings kept talking as Blaine sagged against the wall with relief. Mr. Hummel was alive—in the hospital, which was bad enough, but he hadn't died, which would have destroyed Kurt.

_Kurt._

"…section one, and we'll adjust the rest of the assignment once we hear from Kurt about how long he's going to be out of school. All right?"

"Okay," Blaine agreed automatically, without having the first clue as to what it was he'd just agreed to. "May I be excused please?"

* * *

><p>The drive to Kurt's house seemed to take forever, despite the fact that Blaine was speeding; blowing through yellow lights and barely making a perfunctory pause at every stop sign. He knew that it was dangerous, and that Kurt would be the last person on earth to approve of his reckless driving, but he couldn't bring himself to care—all he could think about was getting to Kurt. He didn't know anything about Mr. Hummel's condition, but if Kurt was missing school for the rest of the week, the news couldn't have been good—and he had let Kurt face the distinct possibility of losing his only family all alone. Whether through the timing of their breakup or, worse, the way that he had initiated their separation and stuck to his guns when Kurt had pleaded with him to change his mind, he'd somehow made Kurt think that he couldn't call Blaine.<p>

That Blaine wouldn't have dropped everything to be there, if Kurt needed him.

Blaine slammed his hand on the steering wheel in frustration, and, after a quick glance in the rearview mirror for any police cars, pressed down a little harder on the gas pedal.

* * *

><p>Finally, Blaine was in Kurt's neighborhood, then in Kurt's driveway, parking next to a red car that he didn't recognize. Slamming the car door and not bothering to stop and lock it, he hurried up the walkway to the front porch, trying to think of what to say to Kurt.<p>

If Kurt was even there; it was late enough in the morning that visiting hours had probably already started at both of the local hospitals. _Someone's here, though, _Blaine's brain acknowledged, and he eyed the unfamiliar car again as he rang the doorbell. Mrs. Jennings had mentioned an uncle, but the concept had barely registered to Blaine at the time, not only because Kurt had never said anything about having an uncle, but also because everything else she had said about Kurt and his family at the time had been so important that brief comments about random relatives had faded in significance. If Kurt _did _have an uncle, though, and he was home, he could probably tell Blaine where to find Kurt and Mr. Hummel, and Blaine could drive out to—

The front door swung open, and Jesse St. James stepped into the threshold.

The shock that Blaine felt at seeing him there must have shown on his face (again), because after blinking in surprise, Jesse's eyes glittered with amusement. "Good morning to you, too," he offered mildly, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck.

The movement forced his chest forward a couple of inches, drawing Blaine's attention to the fact that the sweater he was wearing was one of Kurt's favorites. Frowning, Blaine looked him up and down. Jesse's slippers and drawstring yoga pants belonged to Kurt as well, and his normally perfect hair was damp from the shower.

Blaine swallowed. Whatever Jesse was doing at Kurt's house, he'd clearly been there a while.

He cleared his throat. "Why are you…" he started to ask, his voice trailing off when Jesse raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed at Blaine's inability to figure it out on his own.

"His dad nearly died yesterday," Jesse pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the doorframe. "Would _you _have left him alone?"

The 'you' was pointed and accusatory, leaving no doubt in Blaine's mind that Jesse knew that he'd halted his relationship with Kurt in the World's Most Inopportunely Timed Breakup, and Blaine felt a fresh wave of shame.

Then he remembered who he was talking to, and straightened back up. "Can I see him?" he asked, keeping his own voice steady and clear and trying to communicate non-verbally, in the same way that Jesse had, that he wasn't going to take no for an answer.

If Jesse noticed, though, he didn't acknowledge it. "He's sleeping," he responded evenly, not frowning at Blaine, but not smiling, either. "Finally," he added. "It took him hours. Every time I thought he'd fallen asleep, he'd jerk awake again. Normally I'd get angry at him for leaving such an enormous bruise on my chest, but under the circumstances, I can't bring myself to hold it against him."

He stroked his chest idly, smiling, before looking back up at Blaine with a hint of challenge in his eyes.

Blaine froze.

The wet hair, the borrowed clothing, the self-satisfied smirk, the personal tone of his description of Kurt—it was all too clear to him what Jesse was implying. And it was all that Blaine could do to keep from punching him in his arrogant, smarmy face. Because if it was a lie, then Jesse was an insensitive jerk who had no business being anywhere near him and Kurt. And if it was true…

Blaine couldn't breathe; couldn't even finish that thought.

The question was caught in his throat, but luckily—or unluckily—Jesse was following his train of thought with interest. "Obviously I slept in his bed last night," he commented, glancing at his fingernails. "How else was I supposed to keep an eye on him? But that's not what you want to know, is it?"

Jesse looked at Blaine again, his expression exactly the same as before, and yet somehow harder, more callous. "But I fail to see how what he does is any of your business," he told Blaine in a cool, disinterested tone. "Didn't you break up with him?"

It was a confirmation without explicitly confirming anything, and Blaine shut down, unable to process the idea of Kurt—_his Kurt_—with Jesse. "I didn't…" he heard himself answering, before Jesse cut him off.

"I know, it's complicated," he interrupted dryly. "I'll admit, I may have missed some of the details, since Kurt was crying into my shirt when he told me, but I heard enough to know that you would be overstepping if you're about to tell me to stay away from your boyfriend."

He tilted his head at Blaine, perfectly mirroring one of Kurt's gestures—or maybe Kurt had picked it up from him, instead of the other way around. Blaine was going to be sick.

"Go back to school and let him sleep," Jesse insisted. "It's the least you can do for him."

Blaine didn't answer, and slowly, Jesse closed the door.

* * *

><p>Blaine wasn't sure how he managed to get home without crashing his car, but at some point he was stumbling up the stairs, his stomach churning even as the rest of him felt entirely numb. His face in the bathroom mirror was too pale and tear-streaked, and the thought that that's how Kurt must have looked the day before after getting the news about his dad was enough to send him racing to the toilet, dropping painfully to his knees as he retched coffee and stomach acid, leaving a burning in his throat and a bitter taste in his mouth.<p>

Jesse had wanted Kurt the whole time, Blaine realized weakly, slumping back against the bathtub. Kurt hadn't believed it, had said that Blaine was seeing things that weren't there and that the two of them were just friends, but even as Blaine had tried to take his word for it, a part of him had always known the truth—that Jesse didn't care who he had to break in order to get what he wanted. And that Kurt, trusting and tolerant of his faults, would never truly pick Blaine over him.

Except that, Blaine recognized, Jesse had been right about one thing—Kurt hadn't really chosen between the two of them, because Blaine had chosen to temporarily remove himself from the equation.

And if Jesse had his way, that temporary removal might become a permanent one.

Stumbling to the bathroom sink, Blaine opened his medicine cabinet and grabbed his bottle of mouthwash. He didn't want to think about Kurt or Jesse anymore. He didn't want to think about anything, really; he just wanted to go back in time to Monday afternoon and do everything over again, leaving his note under Kurt's pillow this time and avoiding the desk drawer and the envelope that had started it all, the whole chain of events that had lead him to where he was now.

He put the mouthwash back on the bottom shelf, underneath the row of orange and white bottles; all of Blaine's prescriptions and over-the-counter medicines, each one designed to target his various aches and pains.

There was nothing in the cabinet potent enough to turn his brain off and make him feel better.

But he could improvise.

Pouring a glass of water, Blaine shook out three yellow anxiety pills and lined them up on the edge of the sink. Three sleeping pills follows, each one popped out of its separate blister pack. Scooping them up into the palm of his hand, he added two of his little pink antidepressants.

They looked just like candy, mixed together and cheerful against his tan skin. No wonder so many little kids poisoned themselves every year.

He swallowed them all with one gulp before draining the glass of water.

For the second time in a row, Blaine's sleep was dreamless.

* * *

><p>The rest of the week was horrible. Somehow, despite the crippling anxiety that had characterized his first couple of months at Carmel, Blaine had managed to make, if not <em>friends<em>, at least friendly acquaintances in all of his classes. It was hard not to dwell on the negative, though, when all of his conversations with those friendly acquaintances began with some variation—always from them—of "You look awful" or "What happened, are you okay?"

Blaine also hadn't realized how much he relied on Kurt to get him through the day. Even though they only had one class together, they usually managed to see each other both before and after school, and at least a few times in the hallway between classes. The sudden gaps in Blaine's schedule felt like fresh wounds, open and raw, and made Blaine feel—not for the first time—how much more Carmel belonged to Kurt than to him.

Rehearsal especially felt like Kurt's domain, even in his absence, and Blaine wasn't surprised how quickly it became the worst part of his day. Particularly after the team was warmed up and ready to perform their Regionals program on Wednesday afternoon, and Shelby's announcement about Kurt's dad brought everything to a screeching halt.

"I spoke to Kurt a little while ago, and while his dad is expected to pull through, his situation is still critical," she explained somberly to the hushed crowd. "Kurt will not be returning to school in time for Regionals this weekend, and he has my full support in this decision."

Her tone left no room for argument, and Blaine quickly saw why it had been necessary—a few of the upperclassmen were barely suppressing their complaints, which were no doubt awful and unwarranted. Blaine felt gratified, at least, that he wasn't the only one angered by their heartlessness: Sasha and Andrew, Vocal Adrenaline's other countertenor, were shooting dirty looks at the worst offenders.

And most of the team agreed with them, Blaine learned through whispered conversations as they slightly adjusted all of their choreography to mask Kurt's absence. The prevailing opinion seemed to be that a death in the family was one thing, tragic but not tragic enough to warrant missing a competition, but that nearly losing your _only _family, such as in Kurt's case, was another, and merited more understanding and consideration from the team, even if _they _themselves would have pulled through and competed anyway.

Blaine had no idea how any of them managed to express that sentiment with a straight face. Or whether they'd always been such terrible people and he was just noticing it, or the development was more recent.

Worst of all was Jesse. Somehow, word that Blaine had broken up with Kurt—and was consequently broken up over the situation—had managed to spread, and that, combined with the general knowledge that Jesse was staying with Kurt while his dad was in the hospital, meant that Blaine was the constant recipient of uneasy, sympathetic looks. The looks always came immediately before the sender would turn and ask Jesse a question regarding Kurt or Mr. Hummel, which Jesse would proceed to answer in an overly solemn tone. Even deducing the pattern wasn't enough to keep Blaine from overhearing information such as Kurt continuing to wake up crying in the middle of the night, or Kurt having to be forced to eat at every meal by Jesse, or Kurt worrying about how long it was taking the doctors and nurses to regulate his dad's blood pressure, and each new question and answer session was a fresh source of stabbing pain for Blaine.

Some of his teammates, he knew, had called Kurt or been to see him in their spare time. A bunch of them—mostly sophomores, but a few freshmen and upperclassmen as well—even chipped in to send flowers to the hospital and to Kurt's house. Blaine hadn't been asked to contribute, but he did manage to ask Ben to add his $20 to the collection envelope, banking on the likelihood that the dance captain was the only one polite enough (and seemingly fond enough of both him and Kurt) to do it without asking too many questions.

And indeed, Ben had given him a long look and a little advice ("I don't know what's going on with the two of you right now, but flowers can really only help, can't they?"), but hadn't demanded an explanation or told anyone where the extra money had come from.

As far as calling Kurt or going to visit him himself was concerned…there was always an excuse for delaying it for a few more hours: classes, homework, rehearsals. His parents being home. Jesse being at _Kurt's _home. Anything that Blaine could latch onto as a semi-legitimate reason, in order to avoid facing the truth:

That he was too much of a coward to face Kurt.

Blaine couldn't be angry at Kurt over the envelope anymore, not in the wake of Mr. Hummel's heart attack, but his trust in Kurt had been badly shaken. He couldn't take it on faith anymore, the way he wanted to believe that he would have, that Jesse had been lying about what had happened between the two of them. If Blaine saw Kurt, or even talked to him over the phone, he'd have to ask; and if Kurt confirmed it, or tried to lie to him…

The mere _idea_ of Jesse and Kurt together was horrible enough that Blaine was barely restraining himself from physically ripping Jesse apart, Regionals or no Regionals. He was afraid to find out what he'd do if that idea turned out to be true.

It was too much to think about. Blaine took to avoiding people and phone calls whenever he could, lest someone try to make him talk about anything more complicated than the weather (cool, cloudy), and was more than a little relieved when his mother confirmed that she'd canceled Thursday's appointment with Dr. Ramirez a few weeks before when he'd asked, showing her the 'Team Bonding' activity on his rehearsal schedule.

He spent Thursday evening bonding with a cup of coffee at the Lima Bean, but nobody had to know that.

The only thing that was having a remotely positive effect on Blaine's spirit, besides visiting his lions on Friday after rehearsal, was his anxiety medication. Even though he and Dr. Ramirez had adjusted his dosage several weeks before, he'd never bothered to throw out the old bottle, and he was finding the leftover pills extremely helpful in getting through his day. Whether they were actually doing anything, or whether merely taking a pill whenever his disquiet threatened to reach crushing levels was enough to trick him into feeling soothed, Blaine was dreading the day that his extra stash ran out.

And then, Regionals.

* * *

><p>When Sectionals had come around in the fall, Blaine had woken hours before dawn, unable to sleep.<p>

The morning of Regionals couldn't have been more different: by the time he stumbled down the stairs (freshly showered, but still not entirely awake), Blaine only had half an hour left to eat breakfast and finish getting ready before he had to drive to Carmel and meet the bus.

Also unlike the fall, both of his parents were already up and sitting in the kitchen when Blaine padded into the room; the coffeepot and a platter stacked high with pancakes on the table between them.

Blaine's mother was already perfectly put together and dressed for work, and she smiled at Blaine as he sat down. "I was just about to come wake you up when I heard the water running," she informed him, spearing a few pancakes on the serving fork and dropping them onto his plate. "We wouldn't want you to be late for your big competition."

Blaine didn't have the energy to roll his eyes. "Couldn't have that," he agreed. "One of the seniors might stab me with an eyeliner pencil if I was, and then we'd all be in trouble."

He poured himself a mug of coffee and drank the first sip with a grateful sigh, ignoring the worried glances exchanged between his parents. It was a lot more likely that they were concerned about his sense of humor becoming too morbid for polite company, rather than recognizing that he hadn't actually been joking, but he wasn't awake enough yet to do any damage control.

His mother was blinking at him sadly. "I wish I could come today," she told Blaine for the 53rd time that week. "I really thought that I'd be able to get that meeting moved up, but between teleconferencing with the Japanese branch, and the problems with the English division—"

"It's okay, Mom," Blaine assured her, cutting her off before she could get to the part about the New York office undermining the Midwestern market—he was sure that management conflict was fascinating to some people, but Blaine still had very little idea of what his mother did for a living, exactly.

His father, also clearly hoping to change the subject before she really got going, folded up the newspaper he'd been reading and dropped it on the table. "He'll be fine," he insisted, taking a sip of his coffee. "I'm sure most of his teammates don't have both of their parents coming either, right Blaine?"

Another thing that Blaine had no idea about—the competition was a lot closer to home than the last one had been, since two of the competing teams were relatively local, which might be a factor in how many people actually showed up—but it was obvious which answer his dad was looking for. "I don't think so," he answered dutifully, "I don't remember anyone mentioning that their whole family was coming."

That seemed to mollify Blaine's mother a little, but she was still frowning when she turned to Blaine's dad. "Try to take some pictures, if you can," she ordered. "Unless—Blaine, did you ever get your video camera fixed?"

Blaine shook his head. "Not yet," he told her, watching her face fall slightly before she recovered and excused herself to go find the camera and make sure that the battery was charged.

Blaine's father, on the other hand, looked relieved. He knew his dad had no interest in show choir—Blaine figured that he was only coming because his mom and Grandma were making him, or to reassure himself that Blaine wasn't running around in drag while performing—and being saddled with a video camera the whole time would have made things worse, adding sore arms and no opportunities to sneak out for fresh (meaning: non-glitter-tainted) air every half an hour or so to the ordeal.

Blaine gave it two hours after the competition ended before his dad started asking—nonchalantly, of course—whether Blaine was interested in trying out for any of Carmel's sports teams in the fall. Less if they lost.

He glanced halfheartedly at his partially-eaten stack of pancakes. "I'm going to go get ready," he decided, dropping his fork onto his plate and picking the whole thing up. "I have to leave in a few minutes."

His father looked vaguely surprised at his abrupt departure. "Oh, all right," he answered, watching as Blaine stood up and grabbed his coffee—he'd dump the rest into a travel mug and take it with him. "I guess I—see you there, then. Good luck."

He nodded to Blaine, who nodded back before abandoning his dishes in the sink and leaving the room.

* * *

><p>Once Blaine made it to the parking lot at Carmel, the rest of the morning was a blur. The short bus ride was spent doing vocal warm-ups, and the rest of the time before the competition officially began went by in a flurry of dance warm-ups, marking their spots on the unfamiliar stage, making sure that all of their costumes were in place and easily accessible, and other last-minute preparations. Blaine was grateful to forgo the layers of makeup he'd worn to cover up his face in October, but the twenty minutes he'd spent under Kurt's creams and brushes in the fall instead went to helping Ryleigh run her part of <em>Bohemian Rhapsody<em>, since Shelby and Jesse were both too busy.

"Don't tell anyone," she told him darkly when they'd finished, "but you're a lot easier to work with than Jesse St. Jackass. I can't _wait_ until he graduates."

Blaine couldn't help but share the sentiment.

There were only two other teams competing against Vocal Adrenaline for a spot in the Nationals competition that afternoon, and it wasn't until a cheerful-looking blonde (who was an incredible contrast to her teammates, who took one look at his costume and shot evil looks in his direction) waved at him that he remembered that the other local team was the one from McKinley. Which meant that…

Blaine looked around until he spotted Rachel on the other side of the stage, speaking rapidly to her enormously tall teammate. She hadn't noticed him yet, and Blaine wasn't sure if he should try to get her attention. She'd been a little overbearing when they'd met at the dance, but she was still nice, and if the rumors were true and Jesse had broken up with her recently, she could probably use a friendly face. On the other hand, though, Kurt had made a point of stopping him the last time he'd tried to talk to her, and he wasn't entirely clear on what he was supposed to know about her and Shelby, and what was still a secret (from everyone, _and _from her in particular).

Plus, if he went over to say hello, she was sure to ask him about Kurt.

And talk about him. A lot.

Waving back to the blonde girl (he'd have to ask Sasha what her name was later; all he could remember about her was that she'd freaked him out a little on New Year's Eve), Blaine slipped farther backstage, hiding back in the shadows until the competition began.

* * *

><p>Halfway through McKinley's performance, Blaine was skeptically enjoying their set from the wings. The singers were talented—<em>really <em>talented—but there was hardly any dancing in their program, and while Blaine was still fairly new to show choir, even he knew that there was no way Shelby would have let their team go out onstage singing nothing but Journey songs. They looked like they were having fun, though, and the audience was definitely responding to their energy. Their smiles looked genuine, too; like they were blooming spontaneously, rather than having been practiced during warm-ups at every rehearsal.

He wondered what Kurt would have thought, if he had been there.

"Are you looking for your parents in the audience?"

The quiet, silky voice was all too familiar, and Blaine's frown deepened. "No," he told Jesse, keeping his eyes on the stage. "My dad's here somewhere, but my mom had to work."

"Interesting," Jesse replied, sounding particularly insincere. "My parents are on a plane to Phuket right now, but they'll be watching via satellite feed. As long as they don't encounter too much turbulence, anyway."

Blaine…had no idea what to say to that, and sighed as he turned around. "What do you want, Jesse?" he asked tiredly.

Jesse's expression was unreadable. "What do _you _want?" he asked, turning the question back on Blaine. "You broke up with Kurt almost a week ago, and I know you haven't called or been to see him since Burt got ill—which I thought was a little rude, by the way, but that's your business—but you're still walking around looking like somebody kicked your puppy."

Blaine glared at Jesse, his hands shaking. "You _don't_ want to talk to me about Kurt," he warned sharply, his fingers reflexively curling into fists—_maybe Kurt was right, _he thought, _to talk me out of learning boxing._

Jesse didn't react to the implicit threat. "No, I don't," he confirmed calmly. "I want you to stop it and smile. Your face is too brooding for a matinee audience."

Of all the things Jesse could have come over to say…Blaine shook his head disbelievingly. "That's all you care about," he realized hollowly, blinking slowly at Jesse. "People don't matter at all to you, do they? Not even—"

He stopped himself before he could finish his sentence. "It's all just background noise to you," he said instead. "The only things that mean anything to you are your performances."

Blaine didn't know how he expected Jesse to react to his accusation, but he certainly hadn't expected Jesse to smile, his eyes glittering with mirth. "I hope you recognize," he intoned condescendingly, "that you could have been describing Kurt, just now."

Blaine felt a low, simmering anger begin to build up in his stomach. He narrowed his eyes at Jesse. "Kurt is _nothing _like you," he spat.

A little too loudly, if the uneasy glances from the few other people watching the performance from backstage were any indication.

"Kurt's a lot like me," Jesse countered easily, looking at Blaine with an expression that was almost…pitying. "He's talented and intelligent and driven and ambitious, and he makes sacrifices to get what he wants. Just like me. And this life, his 'performances'," he continued, stressing the word in the same way that Blaine had, "that's what he wants. Not just until the end of the season, or until after high school, but for the rest of his life."

His face turned skeptical. "Can you keep up with that?" he wanted to know.

The sound of wild applause rang out, signaling the end of McKinley's set. Blaine knew that behind him, Rachel and the blonde and their team were taking their bows, and that any second, the stage manager would be calling for Carmel to take their places for _Bohemian Rhapsody_.

Knowing that he only had a few seconds to respond, then, Blaine glared at Jesse, leaned in, and voiced the one thing he'd been dying to tell him all week, but hadn't had the courage to say:

"Fuck. You."

The call for Carmel to get ready was issued, and Blaine turned away from Jesse and his stunned, frozen expression to cross to the other side of the stage, where his opening position was.

He couldn't have cared less about the program or how they placed in the competition, but Blaine was sure that his show smile could be seen from space.

* * *

><p>As expected, Vocal Adrenaline was crowned the Midwestern Regional Champion for the billionth year in a row. Blaine smiled and hugged and congratulated when required, not wanting to spoil anyone else's excitement just because he wasn't feeling any himself, but as the celebration dragged on, it became more and more clear to Blaine that Jesse, for all his maliciousness, had been right about one thing: Blaine really didn't care all that much about winning.<p>

Or, to be more precise, Blaine didn't care all that much about winning with Vocal Adrenaline. Because the Regionals victory meant that, for the next two and a half months, the team would be doing nothing but prepping for Nationals. Which, in turn, meant extra practices. And longer rehearsals. More demands on their time and ability. Fraught nerves and flaring tempers.

And it wouldn't stop there. Whether or not they won Nationals, there would be summer rehearsals for anyone who was in town (or vacationing within 150 miles). There would be the boot camp for the incoming freshmen that a number of the upperclassmen, which would include Blaine after the school year ended, were expected to help run. Then there were the fall Showcases and Evaluations; Sectionals all over again; Regionals, Nationals, and so on until Blaine either graduated or died of exhaustion and unhappiness.

Blaine loved singing and performing, but it wasn't the _only _thing that he loved. And it wasn't until Kurt was gone, unable to make the insane way he was living seem more bearable, that he realized how much he didn't love singing and performing for the Vocal Adrenaline Machine anymore—if he ever had. When he'd first come to Carmel, everything Vocal Adrenaline had to offer—music, dance, friends, _Kurt_—had been new and exciting, and Blaine had latched onto it all in desperation.

But the veneer had since worn off, and as long as Vocal Adrenaline continued to be the best in the country, nothing about the way they operated would ever change or end—Blaine would either have to drink the Kool-Aid and conform, or cut his losses.

Blaine snagged Sarabeth's arm and, after being hugged so hard that he was a little afraid for his ribs, asked her to tell Shelby that he'd be riding home with his dad instead of on the bus with the others.

If it was going to be his last day on the team, he didn't want his final memory of Vocal Adrenaline to be of Jesse gloating on the ride home.

* * *

><p>The flaw in Blaine's plan, of course, was that he could have pretended to sleep on the bus ride home, and nobody would have talked to him. By going with his father, however, Blaine was obligated to actually make conversation—in the same way that, by attending Blaine's competition, his dad was obligated to pretend to have enjoyed it.<p>

"That was quite the show," he offered mildly as they pulled out of the parking lot. "Your mother will be disappointed that she didn't get to see you win; you'll have to tell her all about it."

"Sure," Blaine agreed absently. "I'll do that."

There was an awkward pause. "Should we…do you want to stop for ice cream on the way home?" his dad offered. "I know that the Carvel closed last year, but we could go somewhere else, if there's a certain place you like."

Blaine couldn't remember the last time one of his parents had taken him out for ice cream—that was his grandmother's job. "That's all right," he declined. "We can just go home."

His dad obviously wasn't done trying, though, because he nodded, biting his lip nervously the way that Blaine knew he himself had inherited. "That lead singer of yours had one hell of a voice," he mused. "He was the one whose party you went to last fall, after your last competition, right?"

Blaine felt a flash of anger at the mention of Jesse, and fought to stuff it down before his dad noticed. "Yeah, that's him," he said, a little more curtly than was polite.

His father nodded again. "Is he going to have another party tonight, to celebrate?" he wanted to know.

Blaine bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to think about Jesse.

Or his party after Sectionals.

"I don't know," he lied, leaning his head against the cool glass of the window. "If there is, I don't think I'm going to go—I'm really tired, and I just want to go to bed."

His dad seemed to pick up on Blaine's barely-disguised hint, and was quiet for a few minutes. Until—

"I didn't see Kurt there," he mentioned casually, pulling to a stop at a red light. "Is he still on the team, because—"

"_Dad,"_ Blaine cut him off sharply, his breaking point reached with the unexpected mention of Kurt. "Please, just…stop, all right? Neither one of us wants to be having this conversation, so could we…just, not? Please?"

The light turned green.

Blaine's father slowly followed an old, dilapidated pickup truck through the intersection, and the rest of the drive was spent in awful silence.

* * *

><p>Lying face down on his bed, Blaine barely registered the sound of the phone ringing down the hall. Not that it particularly mattered—the only person Blaine was even vaguely interested in talking to was his Grandma, in order to find out if he had to be a Canadian citizen in order to live with her and go to school in Ontario, or if merely showing up and keeping his head down was enough to help him fly under the legal radar until graduation. And whether or not he'd have to declare lions at the border, even if they promised to be very good and not eat anything endangered.<p>

Blaine pressed his face further into his pillow. _Maybe skipping therapy this week was a bad idea._

Lost in this thoughts (and his bedding), Blaine didn't hear the door to his room open. The tap on his shoulder got his attention, however, and when he rolled onto his side and looked up, his dad was hovering over him, a guarded expression on his face.

"That was your mom on the phone just now," he told Blaine, gesturing toward the door. "She says Congratulations, and she wanted to know if there was anything special you wanted for dinner."

Blaine stared at him blankly for a moment, processing, before shaking his head. "No, thank you," he answered meekly. "I'm not feeling very well."

His dad nodded. "That's what I told her," he said knowingly. "I figured that it would be best if she didn't come home expecting to find you in a talkative mood."

Blaine cringed slightly, thinking about the car ride home.

Which his father still hadn't said anything about, he realized suddenly. "Why aren't you yelling at me?" he wanted to know, not sure at all what kind of answer to expect.

His dad looked at him steadily. "I might have, but I'm not exactly sure what to yell at you for," he admitted.

Blaine stared.

His dad sat down on the bed next to him, his back upright and parallel with the headboard. "You're lashing out because you're angry and upset," he continued, looking at the closet door rather than at Blaine. "But it's obvious that a lot of things have been bothering you for a very long time, and I can't really blame _you _when it's clear to me that I should have said something by now."

Blaine was a little stunned—his father's admission was probably the closest he'd come to talking about anything _real_ with Blaine in ages; probably since he'd come out, almost a year before.

And Blaine almost didn't want to spoil it by interrupting, but he had to know. "Why didn't you?" he asked quietly, toying nervously with the edge of his pillowcase. "Say anything?"

His father sagged a little. "I want to say that it's because I don't know how we got to this point," he confessed, "but that's not entirely fair. But…"

He paused, sighing, before continuing. "Unless you're a father, I don't think you can understand what it's like to have your son come home from school one day and tell you that, because of some quirk of biology, his life is going to be so much harder than what we wanted for him, and that there isn't much we can do to protect him," he explained. "Your mother and I, we're not ashamed that you're gay; we were never disappointed in _you_. I know your mom was upset about not having any grandchildren, at first, but there are plenty of ways for you to have kids, your own ones, even, and she understands that, now. But Blaine, you have to understand that we never saw it coming. And I don't think you realize what it's like to suddenly learn that there's this…huge aspect of your child's life that he's been hiding from you, and that you were completely ignorant of."

Blaine felt tears burning behind his eyes. "But that wasn't my fault," he managed, voice hoarse as he choked out the words he'd wanted to say for almost a year. "How was I supposed to know how you felt when you wouldn't tell me? All I knew was that as soon as I told you—"

Blaine stopped abruptly, a sob tearing sharply at his throat.

His dad looked down at him helplessly. "I know that, Blaine," he admitted. "I…coming to terms with the fact that I didn't know my only son as well as I thought I did took longer than I'd like to believe, and by the time I…there was this gulf, between us. Your uncertainty and hurt feelings; probably more, I won't presume to know how you felt, and all of my regrets and _powerlessness _about the whole thing were like this giant elephant in the room, and I had no idea how to go about fixing it."

Blaine closed his eyes, concentrating on keeping his breathing steady so that he didn't end up crying in front of his father, like a little boy.

"And then The Incident happened," he heard his dad say, "and it just reinforced everything that I felt when you first told me that you were gay; that there are people who are never going to understand that who you love is none of their business, and who will hate you and try to hurt you because of it. And to see that—no father wants that for their child, Blaine."

Blaine had known, somehow, what his dad was going to say even before he said it. Because everything came back to the dance, for Blaine: his school, his friends, Kurt, his parents—everything. He'd tried running away from it by changing schools and cutting off ties with his old life; he'd tried facing his fears at the Winter Ball and leaving them in the past, but every time Blaine thought he had finally closed that chapter of his personal history for good, it came back to haunt him, poisoning yet another part of his life.

A stop loss that he couldn't escape.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "I—that I couldn't be the son you wanted. I'm sorry, Dad."

There was an awful pause.

Blaine curled up on his side, facing the window. He bit his lip, hard, waiting for his dad to get up and leave the room so that he could stop fighting back tears and finally let himself _lose _it.

Slowly, a hand snaked into Blaine's hair, gently stroking his curls in a way that only a few people had ever been allowed to do.

"Do you remember…when you were little, and I took you fishing with me in that tiny little boat that I bought before you were born?" his dad asked quietly. "You were only five, and in retrospect it was obvious that I should have explained what going 'fishing for dinner' actually meant, because when I woke you up and was buckling you into your car seat, you wanted to know why we had to go to the lake before breakfast when I'd said dinner."

He let out a soft laugh. "We ended up casting lines without any bait or hooks the whole time—didn't catch a thing—because I couldn't bring myself to lie to you when you asked me if the fish could feel them. You had fun, but…"

Blaine swallowed. "You sold the boat, after," he remembered. He had hazy memories of the day his dad was talking about, mostly because he'd almost fallen over the edge of the boat, trying to see if there were dolphins underneath the surface of the water, but it was clear that he didn't remember the trip nearly as well as his father did.

"That was the last time I went fishing," he confirmed, still stroking Blaine's hair even as Blaine shifted to look at him again. "Every time I thought about it, or someone invited me to go, all I could see was your little face, looking up at me and asking if the fishies could find their mommies and daddies again after we caught them, or if they would get lost. And I didn't want to take you again, because I didn't want to have to see the expression on your face when you figured out what it was really all about."

When he finally turned to look at Blaine, something in Blaine's chest tightened—he'd never seen his dad look so…_lost, _before.

"Blaine," he said solemnly, his hand stilling in Blaine's hair, "You were _always _the son that I wanted. I'm sorry that, somewhere along the line, I stopped being the father that you deserved."

* * *

><p>Hours later, when they were downstairs waiting for both Blaine's mother and the pizza to arrive, Blaine's father mentioned the phone call.<p>

"I spoke with the Head of Admissions at Dalton Academy while you were at your practice yesterday," he explained. "I would have told you last night, but I knew you had a lot going on with your competition, and I didn't want to distract you."

He looked at Blaine apologetically, and Blaine shook his head dismissively. "It's okay," he promised. "What did she say?"

His dad glanced at the front door. "She called to tell you that a spot opened up at Dalton, and that it's yours, if you want it."

He looked back at Blaine. "They'll hold it for you until the end of next week, so you don't have to decide right away," he reassured Blaine. "If you want, your mother or I could take Monday or Tuesday off of work and drive out to Westerville with you, so that you can take another look at the school before you commit one way or the other."

Blaine shook his head again. "You don't need to do that," he said.

"I want to go to Dalton."


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27/30+ You lovely, patient creatures, you.

It's ridiculous-o-clock in the morning, because I'm leaving for the airport in half an hour. I'll be around tonight to finally finish those review responses I've been neglecting (sorry!), but the next chapter might be a little delayed—I have a grant proposal due on Monday, and I'm getting blasted with a laser tomorrow to reduce the scarring from my cancer surgery, which is going to hurt like a mofo, so I'm thinking a few days off might be a good idea.

I don't own anything, but please feel free to send French fries. (I'm not actually sure if I'm kidding or not, so let's err on the side of French fries, please :D )

* * *

><p>It was shaping up to be both the best and the worst week of Kurt Hummel's comparatively short life.<p>

His dad was alive. That was the most important thing, and, in so many ways, it was the only thing that mattered. The several hours that Kurt had spent in anguish on Tuesday afternoon, thinking that he was going to die, were easily the most traumatic in his personal history, and even days later Kurt couldn't think about them without his hands beginning to shake; his vision starting to swim as his breath caught in his throat and his eyes swam with tears. But they were over, and his worst fears hadn't come true, and everything was going to be fine. Eventually.

Still, Kurt was painfully aware of the fact that he had come within minutes of becoming an orphan. He owed the staff at the garage his father's life—Jason had noticed him sweating and shaking and struggling to stay upright; Cassius had called an ambulance despite Burt's protests that he'd be fine; and, thanks to the yearly CPR training that had become a mandatory practice when Kurt was little, others had thought to strip Burt of his shirt and his metal watch and wedding ring, wrapping him up in an old blanket and standing by with the office's oxygen tank until the paramedics arrived.

His heart had stopped less than a minute from the hospital, and if the shop employees hadn't ignored Burt's objections and acted when and how they did, he likely would have been dead by the time he reached the emergency room.

* * *

><p>The first night at home without his dad was a hazy nightmare. Jesse had driven him home and forced him to clean himself up and eat something, which Kurt had been grateful for in a clinical, detached sort of way, as if he were mentally aware of how he should feel rather than actively experiencing the emotions themselves. And except for a few instances—throwing his shampoo across the room when the bottle wouldn't open, hitting Jesse when he started in on Blaine, etc.—that was how Kurt managed to perceive everything; as separate from himself and his feelings as if everything was happening to someone else, with Kurt merely observing passively.<p>

And it wasn't until Jesse's lips were on his, warm and wet and familiar and inviting, that it all came crashing down. Because as good as it felt, and as much as Kurt wanted, _needed _to relinquish control and make everything just _stop_, the mouth nipping at his bottom lip and the hands pressing into his back were Not Blaine's. Because Blaine was gone, and Jesse was there because his dad was gone and everything was a mess, and suddenly Kurt was sinking down to the floor, sobs ripping his throat raw as he keened like a wounded animal, his tears dripping messily from his cheekbones onto his knees as he gripped his hair, rocking back and forth on unsteady legs until finally, finally, Jesse forced a pair of capsules down his throat and carried him to his bed, wrapping him up and holding him still from behind as Kurt cried through nightmare after empty, hollow nightmare.

Jesse didn't attempt to make him talk about it the next morning. Instead, he woke Kurt up around 11:00am with a bowl of oatmeal, tossed him a fresh outfit to put on, and drove him to the hospital at noon, promising that his Navigator would be in the parking lot (with the keys tucked into the mesh pocket behind the driver's seat) when visiting hours were over.

Like the doctor had promised, his dad had been moved to a regular room, although he was still asleep more often than not. And even when he was awake, he was incoherent enough on Wednesday that Kurt was on the verge of panicking by the time one of the nurses, the same one that had helped him the day before, came through to check on Burt and explained that, while not great, his condition was about what they had expected, and would likely continue to improve by the hour.

Kurt knew that until he could see the improvement for himself, he would likely continue to be shaky and upset. At least Burt knew he was there, though: every once in a while, Kurt would feel his dad's fingers tighten around his own, his hoarse voice mumbling that, "I'm all right, Buddy, it's all right. Don't cry, okay?"

Kurt would squeeze back, wiping his eyes with his free hand and promising that he was fine.

Burt had fallen back asleep with his hand in Kurt's when 8:00pm, the end of visiting hours outside the I.C.U., came around, and Kurt pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead before slipping out the door. The nice nurse patted his shoulder encouragingly as he left the ward, and he managed to give her a tiny smile when she asked if she'd be seeing him again the next day. His car was parked in the lot, the keys tucked exactly where Jesse had promised, and the Starbucks down the street from the hospital was still open and serving (and was the only one in town with a drivethru). Freshly caffeinated and cherishing the hope that his dad might stay awake long enough the next day to have a whole conversation, Kurt drove home with only a little less vigilance that usual.

He still cried for most of the night afterward, but took it as a sign of his own improvement that nobody had to sedate him, like the night before.

* * *

><p>Burt was fully conscious and moaning good-naturedly about the hospital food by Friday morning ("I know hospital food everywhere is supposed to be terrible, but I thought they were at least supposed to give you decent pudding. I'm telling you, Kid, I'd trade a bowl of this stuff for one of your little friend's vegetarian sponge-brownie things in a heartbeat. Well, not <em>my <em>heartbeat, but you know what I mean."). His vital signs had been slow to stabilize, but eventually they had, and he was finally released on Saturday morning with a sheaf of prescriptions, instructions on what to eat and how much sleep and gentle exercise he should try to get each day, and an upcoming appointment back at the hospital to keep tabs on his recovery. Most of his care would necessarily be Kurt's responsibility, but Kurt was too relieved to have him home to mind—his dad had to be at least somewhat better, or the doctors would have kept him.

Burt was equally thrilled to be out of the hospital, claiming to be bored senseless of sitting around with nothing to do but get poked at with needles. Despite his complaints, however, he grew quieter and quieter in the passenger seat on the drive home, and when Kurt helped him across the driveway and into the house, the first thing he did was settle down on the couch for a nap. Kurt tucked a blanket around him, watching his chest rise and fall for a few minutes before glancing at the clock: 12:59.

One minute later, Kurt was sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop, watching as the Midwestern Regional Show Choir Championships began.

* * *

><p>Burt hadn't been thrilled that morning when, signing all of his hospital discharge papers, he noticed the date on them and realized that Kurt was missing his competition. "I'm sorry, Buddy," he'd apologized sadly, his hand on the small of Kurt's back (the highest he could comfortably reach from his mandatory-until-the-parking-lot wheelchair). "I know how important this weekend was to you."<p>

"You're important to me," Kurt had answered shortly, grateful when the hospital orderly helping him carry all of Burt's flowers and cards had dropped a bouquet of tulips, giving him an excuse to leave his dad's side for a moment while he helped clean them up.

In truth, Kurt wasn't sure why he _wasn't _more upset about missing Regionals. When Shelby had called to check up on him after school on Wednesday, it had felt like an easy decision, telling her that he wouldn't be able to make it while watching patients and trays of medical equipment get wheeled down the hallway. And it was a choice that he hadn't regretted, no matter how many of his teammates called or stopped by to tell him that they were sorry he was missing Regionals and about his dad, usually in that order. Even when Jesse, who had stayed with him until Thursday night, and Sasha had hinted that some of his teammates were annoyed at having to adjust the choreography for everything by a few feet in order to cover his absence—there were only two people on The List, and their broken bones weren't going to heal in time to compete—Kurt hadn't felt anything but a vague tiredness. Certainly nothing like the anxious despair that had overwhelmed him as a freshman, when the doctor had explained his exam results and told him that he'd be lucky to dance before the New Year.

And maybe it was because he was watching it on the computer screen instead of from the audience or backstage, but Kurt still didn't feel anything but faintly empty as the first group performed their set (obviously pandering to the judges with a shamelessness that normally would have had him rolling his eyes).

McKinley's team took the stage next, and while they were vaguely more interesting because of Rachel and the stories he'd heard from her and Jesse about some of the others (apparently one of the girls was more than eight months pregnant, and hadn't been found out at home until the confused housekeeper had put her freshly-washed maternity clothes in her parents' dresser), Kurt still wasn't nearly as invested as he normally would have been, even getting up in the middle of their second song in order to fill the tea kettle on the stove and get a mug down from the cabinet.

It wasn't until the familiar harmonies of _Bohemian Rhapsody _rang out from his speakers that Kurt felt anything at all. And even then, it was only that he was glad that they had Jesse back, because his voice was even more stunning than Kurt had remembered. And how nobody who hadn't rehearsed that number a hundred times would ever notice that there was one small voice missing from the choir; a delicate high note absent from the wall of sound.

And how the more he squinted, looking for the soft, dark curls that his fingers knew and ached for, the more his eyes watered and refused to focus.

Kurt powered down his computer mid-note, leaving the laptop and his tea on the table and going downstairs to his room to shower.

Vocal Adrenaline would finish their program and win a bid to Nationals, as they always did, and when Kurt was ready, he'd go back to Carmel and begin preparing.

"_You do what you have to do in order to take care of your family, Kurt," _Shelby had told him, after all. _"Just keep practicing your high notes—when you come back, there's a song I want you to take a look at. _

"_Let's see how your voice sounds on the National stage." _

* * *

><p>Later that day, almost as if in response to his subdued reaction to watching Regionals, Kurt's moods began swinging wildly out of control.<p>

Half of the time, they were bearable—having his dad back, a little worse for the wear but home and safe, kept him feeling relieved and grateful, sometimes overwhelmingly so. It was enough that, when the pendulum swung in that direction, Kurt often found himself imagining a future for them where things got better; where his dad, shaken by his brush with mortality, followed the doctors' advice to the letter, eating better and exercising more (or at all) and growing so strong and healthy that Kurt never had to worry about losing him so suddenly ever again.

Except that, in reality, his dad wasn't exactly the world's most compliant patient. He ate his heart-healthy meals and went on his short, twice-daily walks around the house with Kurt, but only after his fair share of grumbling. Each remark or complaint that highlighted Burt's ambivalence toward his recovery, or made Kurt think that his dad was merely humoring everyone, biding his time until he could have his processed meats and greasy pizzas back again, made Kurt grit his teeth with suppressed anger. He couldn't yell at his dad, not after he almost didn't come home, and especially when the doctor had advised Burt to keep calm and avoid getting overly stressed or upset, but if a heart attack wasn't a big enough shock to make him wake up and start taking his health seriously…

Kurt tried to adopt the same advice himself, attempting to stay as serene as possible whenever his anger or frustration began building up. He took meticulously good care of his dad, only leaving the house to get the mail or to drive to the store for medicine and groceries. When Burt slept, he did laundry or yoga, the television on mute with the captioning on so that he could hear if his dad moved around or called for him. After dinner, his dad in bed or falling asleep on the couch watching sports, Kurt would set up his computer at the kitchen table and pile his textbooks on a chair next to him, mechanically working his way through his homework assignments; first the ones that he had missed the week before, then the new ones that arrived for him each day via email, accompanied by notes and well-wishes from his teachers. Only when he was too tired to think anymore would Kurt stumble down the stairs to his room, curling up on his bed and passing out until dawn, when everything started all over again.

It was a less physically punishing schedule than he was used to, but a mentally and emotionally exhausting one. And it was better that way—the more drained Kurt was, the less time and energy he had to dwell on Blaine's conspicuous absenteeism.

Several of Kurt's friends and teammates had called or visited in the first few days after his dad's heart attack, and many of them had sent cards or flowers, either to the hospital or directly to Kurt's house, where they had piled up on the front porch until Kurt came home from visiting Burt each night to take them in. Even in his zombie-like state, however, the fact that Blaine wasn't among them hadn't escaped his notice. Jesse did his best to keep Kurt distracted—forcing him to eat, bringing him a stack of Thank You notes to fill out and send ("I know how you feel about manners and promptness," he'd explained when he handed them to Kurt)—but the more Burt's condition continued to improve, the more Kurt's mental state slowly recovered.

And the more Blaine's prolonged absence, when Kurt knew that he _had _to know what had happened, ate away at him; choking him with hurt until everything was too much to bear.

Kurt _missed _him—his eyes, his face; the strong, comforting weight of his arms as they wrapped around him from behind, his chest pressed against Kurt's back as their breathing synchronized and Blaine's lips found his shoulder, neck, jaw, cheek, mouth. He missed the way that Blaine looked at him; the way he smiled when Kurt was happy and held him when he was sad; the way he always, _always _made him feel like everything could get better, that _he _could _be_ better, if someone like Blaine could truly exist in the world and love him back.

But Blaine wasn't there and Kurt _needed _him _so much_, and he couldn't bring himself to call and beg him to come over and be with him, be in love with him, because the only thing worse than Blaine being gone would be if Kurt pleaded with him to stay a second time, and Blaine walked away.

In his more rational moments, Kurt could recognize that avoiding him when he was such a wreck didn't seem at all like something that Blaine would do, and that there had to be a reason that he continued to stay away. When pressed, however, Jesse admitted that Blaine was still coming to classes and rehearsals and seemed fine, and the idea that Blaine could still want time apart from Kurt or, worse, was still so upset with him that he couldn't put their conflicts aside to be with him, was so painful that Kurt immediately shut down that train of thought and refused to examine it, forcibly devoting all of his waking attention to his dad and his chores and his homework.

And if he woke up in the middle of the night, every night, aching from painful dreams where everyone left him, abandoning him over and over again while he cried and begged them not to go…

They were just nightmares.

* * *

><p>It was Wednesday before Burt confronted him about his continuing absence from school.<p>

"Kurt, you've been out of class for a week, now," he pointed out, when Kurt brought him his fruit parfait and warm milk for breakfast, setting the tray on the coffee table as he straightened Burt's pillows on the couch. "I think it's time for you to go back to school."

Kurt immediately shook his head, sitting carefully in his chair with his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. "Not until you're walking around more," he insisted, drawing his legs up onto the seat. "You're not mobile enough to take care of yourself all day yet. If you have to get something from the kitchen, or use the bathroom—"

"Then I'll use the damn walker," Burt interrupted evenly, nodding at the metal contraption next to the couch. "I'll be fine on my own until you get home. This is your education, Buddy; it's important for you to go."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "It's more important to me that I know that you're okay," he argued. "How much do you think I'm going to learn in school if I'm worrying about you the whole time?"

"More than you're going to learn staying home, watching TV and counting my pills for me," Burt countered seriously. "Come on, Kurt; you need to go back before you fall too far behind. What would your mom want you to do?"

The Mom card was a familiar, if seldom-used, argument. On the few occasions that Burt insisted that Kurt's mother would have agreed with him in the given situation, Kurt always found himself bowing to their combined preference—even years after her death, Kurt couldn't stomach the idea of being a disappointment to her.

This time, however, it made him angry; his lukewarm coffee sloshing over the rim of his mug as his hands began to tremble violently. "I don't know," he answered coldly, just barely keeping his temper in check. "What do you think she'd want you to do about the bacon cheeseburgers you eat twice a week for lunch—the ones that you think that I don't know about?

"I do your laundry, Dad," he added, when Burt stared at him in surprise. "I see the receipts in your back pockets. You can't do this, Dad; you don't get to sit there and tell me to eat more and work less and go to school and tell me what _Mom would want_—not while you ignore me and your _cardiologist_ when we beg you to take your health more seriously. You could have _died, _Dad."

Realizing that he was almost yelling—one of those pesky activities the doctor suggested they avoid for a while—Kurt clamped his mouth shut, put his dripping mug down on the table, and folded his arms tightly around his waist, not even caring about the coffee stains he was doubtlessly smearing his sweater with.

His dad was watching him, a helpless kind of sadness on his face. "Kurt, buddy," he started, running a hand over his head with a sigh. "Listen, you've gotta know that—"

"Don't," Kurt sighed back, blinking rapidly as his vision blurred. "I know that this isn't about me, it's about you. I know that, and last week was so much worse for you than for me. But I just—I can't, Dad. They couldn't even tell me if you were still alive or not, when I found out that you were at the hospital, and…I'm just so _mad _at you right now. You act like it's this huge burden to do what the doctors and I tell you, when all we're asking you to do is try to eat a little better and get a little more exercise so that you don't have another heart attack and die this time."

Tears were streaming down Kurt's face, but he made no effort to wipe them away. "And I know you miss Mom," he managed, his voice strangled, "and I miss her too, so much. But I love you too, and I need you, and why aren't I enough to make you want to try? Dad—"

Kurt's throat closed up as he began to cry in earnest, and the second that Burt pushed his tray off to the side and opened his arms, Kurt was out of his chair and clinging his dad's shirt, half in his lap and half on the couch as several days' worth of pent-up anger and frustration and despair came pouring out. Burt gripped him tightly, rocking him gently the way he had done when Kurt was little and had nightmares or a bad day at school, his hold on Kurt's back almost painful.

He held on long after Kurt had stopped crying.

"Listen, Kurt. It's you and me, Pal, always. I know that, and I'm not going anywhere, all right?" Burt promised, resting his chin on top of Kurt's hair. "I do miss your mom, every day, but I love you. More than anything else. And I'm gonna try harder, okay?"

Too exhausted to argue, Kurt nodded silently, still tucked into his dad's chest.

Burt nodded back. "You can call me from the office anytime you want to, okay?" he offered. "Call me fifty times a day; ask me whatever you need to. But I want you back in school. You've missed too much already because of me, and you're too smart to stay home all day watching _Man vs. Wild _reruns with your old man."

Kurt sniffed. "I like _Man vs. Wild,_" he pointed out. "There are marginally less fish guts and commercial-grade waterproof overalls on that than on _Deadliest Catch._"

"Yeah, yeah," Burt grumbled, tousling his hair. "Well, once you're gone, I'll be sitting here eating my organic mush and watching that show with the fancy cupcakes, since I'm never getting a real one again. Apparently, those things are bad for you, and I've got a kid to finish raising."

* * *

><p>By the time Kurt cleaned himself up and made it to Carmel, there were only three more periods left in the day. Everyone knew why he'd been out of school so long, and the teachers were especially gentle with him, welcoming him back quietly when he walked into each class and promising him a few days to get settled before they expected him to be caught up. Coach Walker was delighted to have him back, and let him watch the basketball game instead of making him play, since it was the final day of the unit before they switched over to tennis, anyway. His classmates, too, were nicer than usual, offering their condolences and well wishes and, in the case of his teammates, offering to fill him in on every minute detail from their competition the weekend before.<p>

When the school day was finally over—he'd missed it a little more than he'd thought, but was still anxious to get home—Kurt tucked himself into a doorway down the hall from Blaine's locker, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

When the bell rang, signaling the start of Carmel's activity period, Blaine still hadn't shown up. Dispirited, Kurt abandoned his hiding spot and drove home.

* * *

><p>Blaine wasn't at his locker the next morning either, or in History later that day. Kurt was torn between relief and disappointment—relief that, if Blaine was going to break his heart and finish him off, at least it hadn't happened yet and he could still hope; disappointment that another day was going to go by without Blaine there. If time was supposed to heal all wounds, it clearly wasn't doing its job—without Blaine, Kurt felt as though he was walking around with a hole where his heart should have been; a gaping emptiness that was only growing bigger and more painful. Kurt hated it, and he hated himself for being so <em>dramatic <em>about it, but there wasn't a lot that he could do about it, either—not until he saw Blaine again, at least.

But Friday came, and Blaine was still gone, and there was nobody he could talk to about it: Jesse would have told him already why Blaine wasn't coming to school, if he knew, the administrative offices would never release that kind of information to another student, and asking anyone from Vocal Adrenaline where he was and why he was gone would have been tantamount to admitting that Blaine wasn't talking to him, and Kurt couldn't handle that.

Even their teachers wouldn't be able to help him—Mrs. Jennings was out with the flu, and the substitute was a math teacher who had been letting them use the period as a study hall (_and God, if Blaine was there he and Kurt would have taken so much advantage of that_), and Shelby was gone for the week with some sort of family emergency. Dakota Stanley had been running rehearsals all week—Kurt had never been so grateful to have an excuse to go home after school—and the likelihood of him even knowing Blaine's name, let alone his whereabouts, were infinitesimally slim.

By the end of the school day, Kurt had had enough, and had made up his mind.

* * *

><p>The lights were on at Blaine's house, but all three of the garage doors were down, leaving Kurt without a clue as to who might answer the door. After calling his dad to make sure that it was all right if he didn't come straight home ("Don't worry, Bud," Burt had assured him, "the couch hasn't moved since I sat down on it; I think it'll stay put until you get back."), Kurt had spent the whole drive over practicing his small talk in case he ran into one of Blaine's parents.<p>

There was nothing to practice in preparation for seeing Blaine—even if he had wanted to act like the visit meant less than it did, Kurt was sure he'd crack the second he saw Blaine's face.

Slipping a packet of tissues from the glove compartment into his jacket pocket—he was there because _not _knowing had finally become worse than whatever Blaine could say to him, but he was sure to shed a few tears either way, knowing him—Kurt took one last deep breath to steel himself and climbed out of the car.

A few seconds after the familiar chime of the Andersons' doorbell rang out, Kurt could hear the clicking sound of Mrs. Anderson's high heels as she hurried to the front hall. Pasting his smile in place, he was ready when she answered the door.

"Hello, Mrs. Anderson," he greeted her politely. "It's nice to see you."

Mrs. Anderson returned his smile with a more genuine-looking one. "Kurt! It's so nice to see you, too; James and I were just saying the other day that you hadn't been over in a while."

Kurt's gaze dropped to his feet. "I know," he acknowledged. "My dad was in the hospital last week, and I've been pretty busy at home."

Mrs. Anderson hummed sympathetically. "I'm so sorry to hear that," she offered, blinking sadly at him. "Is there anything we can do to help? It's just the two of you, isn't it?"

Kurt, who'd been asked the same two questions countless times already, shook his head. "No, we're fine, but thank you for asking," he recited. "I was just hoping to see Blaine, if I could."

Mrs. Anderson's frown deepened. "Oh, Sweetheart, he didn't tell you? He decided not to come home from Westerville this weekend, after all. I tried to get him to change his mind, but he said he wants to spend some time getting to know the campus a little bit better, so that he doesn't keep getting turned around between classes."

It took every ounce of willpower and dramatic training that Kurt possessed not to react to Mrs. Anderson's offhanded revelation.

Blaine had left Carmel. Blaine was going to school at Dalton Academy.

Blaine had left him without even saying goodbye.

"Oh," Kurt managed hollowly, blinking quickly before his eyes could flood with tears and betray him. "No, I thought—he must have called while I was at school. I haven't checked my messages yet, so…"

Mrs. Anderson seemed to accept that as a likely explanation. "I'm sure you boys will be able to see each other next weekend," she suggested. "Or—well, maybe not; it's a long drive to Dalton, and if you've got your dad…"

Not able to deal with his secret (possibly-former) boyfriend's oblivious mother hinting that he should drive out to see said boyfriend at his new school that he had neglected to mention, Kurt shrugged his shoulders in response, and was about to politely excuse himself so that he could go implode privately in the car when Mrs. Anderson straightened up.

"I almost forgot, Kurt," she added, her socialite smile back in full force. "Your sweater is upstairs in Blaine's room; he left it there for you in case you needed it back before he came home. If you don't mind waiting, I can run up and grab it for you."

Inside the house, the telephone rang, and Mrs. Anderson glanced back nervously.

Without stopping to think about what he was doing, Kurt shook his head. "Why don't you go ahead and get that, if it's important?" he offered. "I can get my things from Blaine's room and let myself out, it's no trouble."

Mrs. Anderson's expression relaxed. "Would you mind?" she agreed, hastily ushering him into the house and retreating down the hall. "It's just that I'm expecting a call, and—"

The phone rang again, and Mrs. Anderson shook her head at her own rambling. "It was sweet of you to drop by, Kurt," she said quickly. "Blaine will be so disappointed that he missed you."

With a last, hurried smile, Mrs. Anderson turned the corner and disappeared from Kurt's sight, picking up halfway through the next ring of the telephone and leaving Kurt alone in the front hall.

* * *

><p>Kurt kept his expression perfectly neutral as he climbed the stairs and wandered down the familiar hall, concentrating on keeping his breathing composed and even. It wasn't until he shut himself up in Blaine's room—and how was it possible that the space looked so <em>abandoned<em>, even with so few things missing or out of place?—that he gave into his feelings, his hand flying up to his mouth and his breath hitching in his throat as he choked down tears; gasping for air as his legs grew weak and he slid down the dark wooden door and onto the carpet.

Blaine had run away. He was _gone, _and he hadn't even come to say goodbye. Whatever Kurt had thought was going on between the two of them, he'd never seriously entertained the idea that Blaine was capable of doing anything as heartless as that. Even when he'd failed to visit or even _call_ after Kurt's dad had nearly died, Kurt had ignored it when he could, and had made excuse after excuse for him in his head when he couldn't, unable to face a reality where Blaine could know how much Kurt needed him and ignore him anyway.

And even after talking to Mrs. Anderson and knowing what Blaine had done, Kurt still couldn't make sense of it. Because, even as confused and upset and _hurt _as he was, Kurt knew that Blaine simply _wouldn't have done that._ Something was wrong.

Helplessly, Kurt's gaze travelled around Blaine's room. There were no flashing neon signs or open, tearstained diaries anywhere to help him out, but the sweatshirt he had given Blaine the week before was neatly folded on top of Blaine's pillow. Wiping his wet cheeks with his sleeve, Kurt gingerly stood up and walked over to the bed, picking up the sweatshirt and lifting it to his face. The fabric smelled like Blaine, bringing a fresh wave of tears to his eyes, but he shed his jacket and pulled it on anyway, wanting to be enveloped in the scent.

And as he straightened the sleeves and tugged the hem into place, a crinkling sound reached his ears.

Kurt tore at the sweatshirt pocket with both hands and pulled out two messily-folded pieces of paper that were covered in Blaine's familiar handwriting. Feeling suddenly lightheaded, Kurt slowly sat down on Blaine's bed, curling up against the pillows as he carefully unfolded and smoothed out the pages.

The ink was smudged in places, and there were words (and even whole sentences, in a couple of cases) that had been crossed out so thoroughly that Kurt couldn't make out what Blaine had originally written. The letter was addressed to him, though, and Kurt held it close, squinting to make out the words in the more illegible sections:

_Dear Kurt, _the letter read,

_I love you. Whatever else happens after you read this letter, I need you to know that._

_I'm sure that by now, you've been told that I'm transferring to Dalton Academy today (Wednesday). And since I'd have ripped this up if I wasn't such a coward, you're probably upset or angry with me for letting you find out from my parents or someone at school, instead of telling you myself. I'm so sorry for doing that to you. _I'm _upset and angry at myself about it, because I never want to do anything that hurts you, and since I can't pretend that there's much I'm going to miss about Carmel, the only real regret I have in leaving is that I don't have the courage to tell you any of this in person._

_I don't want to be like that forever though, and that's a big part of why I'm transferring. Because I know we talked about some of this last week, but I don't think I've been truly honest with you and told you that, too much of the time, I feel like you're the only thing that's keeping me from drowning—not only at Carmel, but in general as well. This last week without you has been hell, mostly because I miss you so much that it feels like I'm missing a physical piece of myself, but also because you're an anchor for me even when nothing else is right. I know I'm mixing my metaphors now, but the point is that even when I feel better for a while, feel like I'm making progress in therapy, the littlest setback is enough to make everything fly apart again. And I haven't been learning to be strong on my own because it's easier to lean on you, or to get angry at everyone and everything, or numb myself with my pills, than to admit that I'm still struggling._

_But I don't want to do it anymore. I need to be better than I have been, mostly for me, but for you, too. When I came over on Wednesday, seeing Jesse with you…broke me, and I let how I felt become more important to me than what you were going through. I'd understand if you hated me for that, especially because I couldn't even bring myself to call and explain later. I don't know if he was just messing with me, or if anything happened between the two of you, but it shouldn't have mattered to me that morning. And I'm not proud of myself for not being able to cope with the idea of losing you to someone else in order to help _you _cope with nearly losing your father. I know we had just broken up, and you were well within your rights to do whatever you needed to do, and I should have been there. Even if that hadn't been true, and you had really cheated on me, I should have been able to help you when you needed help, and dealt with everything else later, the way I know you would have done for me. Because you're a good person, Kurt, even if you don't always think you are or know what the right thing is._

_This is the hardest thing I've ever written. I'm sorry that it's getting so incoherent. _

_I don't know what's going to happen now. Like I said, I'd understand if you hate me and want to make our breakup permanent (even if I really, really hope you don't), but either way, please text me and let me know that you've gotten this letter. You're my best friend, even if we decide in the end that we want different things, and if you say it's all right, I'll give you a call in a couple of months when I've had some time to work on myself and sort out everything that I'm feeling._

_I hope your dad is doing well. I think about both of you every day._

_I love you (I love you I love you I love you I love you) and I'm sorry._

_Blaine._

* * *

><p>When Kurt finally stopped crying (his face pressed into one of Blaine's pillows so that Mrs. Anderson wouldn't hear his sobbing and come in), he pulled his jacket from the end of the bed into his lap and took his cell phone out of the pocket. With shaking hands, he sent Blaine the requested message:<p>

_I love you so much. Please call me whenever you're ready. I love you._

By the time his phone chimed with a reply (_Thank you for understanding. I love you, always._), Kurt was on the other side of town.

* * *

><p>Jesse's car was parked in the driveway, but it wasn't until Kurt had stabbed angrily at the doorbell for the third time that he finally heard the muffled sound of Jesse's voice (and a pair of measured, steady footsteps) coming down the hall and approaching the front entrance of the house.<p>

When the door swung open, the reason for the delay was obvious: Jesse was on the phone. "Well, if it has to be a parent supervising her, then she's going to have to wait until the end of April," he was saying. "They're going straight from Thailand to Cambodia, and it's not as if they can fly in from Southeast Asia for a 48-hour visit."

A frazzled voice on the other end started speaking rapidly, and Jesse rolled his eyes skyward with impatience as he waved Kurt inside and shut the door behind him.

"They're scheduled to check in with us on Monday," he informed the caller when there was a pause. "I can ask them then, but I doubt their answer will be any different from mine." Glancing at Kurt, he pointed at the closet and down the hall, indicating that Kurt should hang up his sweatshirt and head into the kitchen, from which the scent of freshly-brewed coffee was wafting.

Kurt did neither, staring coolly at Jesse with folded arms as he leaned against the bannister.

Jesse shrugged his shoulders, wrapping up the phone call. "I'll give them the message," he promised. "Tell Angela I said Hello. Of course. Thank _you._"

Hanging up the phone, he let out a theatrical sigh. "Honestly, Kurt," he insisted, shaking his head, "these doctors are supposed to be the best in the country; you'd think they'd have a better sense of forewarning. A week is hardly enough notice for the entire family to change their plans and schedule flights home, just so that Angela can come back for a trial weekend. Rising gas prices affect everyone, you know."

Kurt ignored him. "Why didn't you tell me that Blaine came to see me last week?" he demanded instead, looking directly at Jesse with a frosty seriousness that felt weirdly gratifying.

Jesse, unfazed as ever, raised an eyebrow. "Hello to you too, Kurt. Why didn't you tell me that you'd hired me as your private secretary?" he countered mildly, dropping the phone onto the spindly table by the front door. "A lot of people visited you last week; I didn't keep track of them all."

He paused. "I had no idea you were so popular, either," he added. "I would have—"

"Blaine came to visit, you said something to him, and he left before I could talk to him," Kurt interrupted, unwilling to let Jesse slyly change the subject. "I want to know what you said, and I want to know why you said it."

Jesse sighed again. "I didn't let anyone in to see you on Wednesday morning," he explained, looking slightly irritated at Kurt for questioning his judgment. "I didn't think you wanted to see anyone but your dad, since you were so upset and stressed out."

Kurt closed his eyes briefly. It was such a Jesse answer—just plausible enough that he could almost believe that it was true.

But just being turned away at the door wouldn't have upset Blaine so much that he couldn't bring himself to face Kurt.

"I wasn't so stressed out that I wouldn't have wanted to see my boyfriend," he replied, actively working to suppress his anger. Or at least his temper—yelling at Jesse before clearly making his point had a tendency to be counterproductive. "And you knew that. You knew I wanted to see him."

"I knew that you had just cheated on him," Jesse pointed out with a sympathetic frown.

Kurt's blood turned to ice. "We were taking a break," he reminded Jesse, who looked at him pityingly.

"That didn't work on _Friends, _either," he chided Kurt gently. "It may seem trivial, but you need to know these things, Kurt—cultural education is important for your career."

Kurt growled. "_Screw _my _career,_" he spat. "Jesse…" He trailed off, too angry and frustrated to figure out how to make Jesse understand _why_ what he had done mattered so much.

If there even was a way—Kurt was stubborn, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd walked away from a fight with Jesse feeling like he'd won.

Maybe he never had.

Jesse was still and quiet, watching him with careful eyes. "I told you," he said softly after a minute, slowly stepping closer to Kurt as if he was trying not to startle him. "When we kissed the other night, I told you that it didn't have to mean anything.

"But you kissed me back," he reminded Kurt, gazing at him so hypnotically that Kurt had to tear his eyes away, even as his throat tightened in remembrance. "Even if you were with Blaine, you still have feelings for me, I know you do. And you and I…we broke up, yes, but we've never really had any closure. Because you and I are different from all the others, Kurt," he insisted. "And Blaine won't ever understand you like I do. I thought Rachel—"

Jesse paused, looking away from Kurt briefly for the first time since he'd started talking. "I thought she was special too," he admitted. "Maybe she is, or maybe she'll sacrifice her future and tie herself down to some moron football player right out of high school; it's her choice."

He shook his head sadly. "But we were born for greatness," he continued, "and I can't watch you throw everything you've worked for away. You can't blame me for wanting to protect you, Kurt."

Kurt looked back at Jesse, ready to fire back with an angry retort about not needing that sort of protection.

And paused.

Jesse was looking at him, wide-eyed but confident, standing just within Kurt's reach. He'd obviously changed his clothes and fixed his hair after coming home, and the light scent of his cologne blended so seamlessly with the aroma of the coffee drifting down the hall from the kitchen that Kurt almost hadn't noticed that both were among his favorites. Even the lighting in the hall was perfect, flattering Jesse's skin tone without washing out Kurt's more delicate complexion.

The staging was perfect, like a scene out of a play.

And if Kurt closed his eyes hard enough, he could even see Jesse practicing his lines in front of the mirror.

Kurt's anger drained away as he opened his eyes, replaced by something more complex and harder to define. "I don't blame you," he answered calmly, looking Jesse in the eye and watching the surprise creep into his expression at Kurt's deviation from their age-old script. "What happened between Blaine and I was my fault, and a little bit Blaine's, as well."

Seeing that Jesse was about to say something, Kurt held up a hand to stop him. "But I'm not in love with you, either," he added. "Not like I'm in love with him, and you hate that."

Jesse's composed smirk faltered. "Is that what you think," he commented flatly.

It was a statement rather than a question, but Kurt nodded anyway. "Part of it, at least," he answered seriously, ignoring Jesse's tone. "You need people to want you, to want to be like you, so that you can justify treating people badly the way you do. But it's not going to work anymore. Not with me, anyway."

Jesse was paler than Kurt had ever seen him; the lighting in the hall clearly wasn't as perfect as he had imagined.

"Kurt," Jesse began, sounding incredulous, "you can't—"

"I can," Kurt interrupted. "And you're going to listen to _me _talk, for once. You manipulate Blaine because he's as talented as you are, but he doesn't need to be the best the way that you do, and it scares you that other people might see it, too. And they will, because he's amazing, and I'm going to get him back if it takes me until I'm thirty to re-earn his trust."

Kurt swallowed. "But you manipulate me because I let you," he admitted, looking down at the floor. "Because there's still some part of me that needs your approval, and cares what you think about me. And it's my fault, that I let you do that."

Kurt straightened back up, staring evenly at Jesse—who was looking more and more unnerved by Kurt's sudden outpouring, he noticed. "But I'm not the same person that I was when you met me," he continued. "And I don't fit under your wing anymore. I've been acting like there's still so much that you know that I don't—"

"Because that's true," Jesse interrupted quickly, looking intensely at Kurt, a pang of desperation in his voice. "Yes, I can be hard on you, but it's only because I know what you're capable of. You could be incredible, Kurt, if you would just—"

It was Kurt's turn to interrupt. "I will be incredible," he said calmly. "And it'll be partly thanks to you; I know that. But there are some sacrifices that aren't worth the price, and that I'm not willing to make, even if you thought that _you _were."

Kurt watched the indirect blow land, and if he'd still been angry, he would have felt vindicated by the sudden shock on Jesse's face as he realized that Kurt had worked out what Jesse had never told him about their sudden breakup that was never really an ending.

But even though he still hated what Jesse had done, to him _and_ to Blaine, Kurt didn't feel anything anymore, except for tired. Tired, and a little sorry for Jesse, who tried so hard to orchestrate everyone else around him, but who had given up control over his own life a long time ago.

"You know," he said gently, straightening back up and putting his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt, where he'd kept Blaine's letter, "being great doesn't mean being exactly like you. You don't have to be perfect. And you're _not_ perfect, no matter how badly you want everyone to think you are."

He was halfway to the front door when Jesse called after him.

"Then what am I?" he asked Kurt.

Kurt paused.

"If I'm not the best," Jesse pressed, looking just as tired and empty as Kurt felt. "If I'm not perfect. What am I?"

Kurt bit his lip silently. Jesse was watching him, eyes searching his face hungrily. As if the right answer was written there somewhere, if only he looked hard enough for it.

But Kurt couldn't give him that; not when he didn't know himself. Shrugging his shoulders, he gave Jesse one last, sad smile, before turning away.

"Figure it out," he suggested, and walked out the door.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28/3? Getting close, for sure.

This took forever! My apologies—I wanted to post it yesterday, but my internet connection has been awful all week (which is also my explanation for the lack of review/message responses so far—I'm getting to them this weekend, I promise).

This chapter, while still well over 5,000 words, originally had two more scenes that didn't make it to the final cut, including a chat with Grandma Anderson. I'll rewrite them and work them in later, since they're of some importance, but they didn't quite gel with the rest of the chapter for whatever reason. So this chapter should take less than an hour to read, for once :)

I don't own anything, as usual. Sad.

* * *

><p>Calling the Admissions Office and accepting his place at Dalton Academy ended up setting off a flurry of activity, enough to keep Blaine impossibly busy for nearly three days.<p>

There were mountains of paperwork to fill out and sign, medical records to be authorized and faxed, a withdrawal form to complete and a locker to empty at Carmel, and meetings with the Dean and several counselors at his new school—the former to officially welcome him to Dalton and assure his mother that the dorms were well supervised during the week; the others to make sure he received the necessities (school ID, Student Handbook, Code of Conduct, etc.) and to get him placed in the appropriate classes. Everyone seemed weirdly happy to meet with him. The Student Life Counselor, in particular, was thrilled to learn that Blaine already had some friends at the school, and promised to have a word with the fencing coaches about getting Blaine started in an after-school Basics class. He also had to get fitted for his new uniform, which actually came in a number of different options besides the official blazer that Blaine had always seen Wes and the other Warblers wearing.

His initial reaction to seeing the sweaters and vests, neatly hung on wooden hangers to avoid stretching and wrinkles, was that Kurt would have grudgingly approved. His second was to spend five minutes anxiously worrying about whether or not he was…_allowed _to think of Kurt so casually, anymore.

"I didn't think we'd be doing this until you were ready to leave for college," his mother mentioned with a sigh as she handed Blaine their shopping bags to load into the trunk of the car, their red plastic cart piled high with linens and extra pillows and all of the other supplies he'd need to live comfortably in his new dorm room four days a week. "You're just growing up so fast, Darling. It's hard to think about sometimes."

When the bags were secure, Blaine returned the cart and climbed into the passenger seat of his mom's sedan in silence, unwilling to confess to her that, rather than growing up, all he had done was find a more grown up method of running away.

* * *

><p>Because Blaine had missed his appointment with Dr. Ramirez the week before—and would likely miss his next one as well, since Thursday would be his first full day of classes at Dalton—his mother had arranged an emergency session for him on Tuesday night. Blaine had spent most of the afternoon and evening packing, and was already exhausted by the time he made it onto Dr. Ramirez's soft, white couch, but he dutifully outlined everything of importance that had happened since the last time they'd seen each other.<p>

It took him awhile.

By the time he finished, Dr. Ramirez had quit taking notes and was staring at him, eyebrows raised. "So—an eventful two weeks for you, then," she said finally, drastically underestimating the situation.

Blaine tried not to roll his eyes. "Yeah," he agreed quietly, "something like that."

Dr. Ramirez nodded, adjusting her glasses. "Really, though, that's quite a lot of stress to handle all at once," she pointed out. "How have you been handling it?"

Blaine shrugged. "Not very well," he admitted. "It sort of feels like…it's like I haven't really accepted that everything's really happening, because if I did, I'd probably stop functioning." He pulled absentmindedly at a tassel on the pillow that had somehow ended up in his lap, socked feet burrowing themselves further into the couch cushions. "I don't want to be how I was in the fall," he confessed. "I felt like a zombie. If it wasn't for Kurt—"

Blaine broke off sharply. Even if Kurt was on his mind in some capacity most of the time, talking about him—outside of the brief overview he'd had to give Dr. Ramirez of the past couple of weeks—was…different, somehow. Harder.

Dr. Ramirez looked knowingly at him, but didn't press the subject. Which Blaine was initially thankful for, until her mouth twisted into the slight frown that she always wore whenever she was about to say something that she knew Blaine wouldn't like.

Blaine's stomach dropped.

If Dr. Ramirez noticed his unease, which Blaine was sure she had, she ignored it, looking at him evenly. "Part of the reason I ask is that I have other students who go to Dalton," she explained, "so I'm aware of their prescription medication policies. When your mother called to make tonight's appointment and tell me about your transfer, I was able to talk to her directly, and informed her that she'd have to secure a supply of your pills with the school nurse, who would lock them up and give them to you at whatever time you schedule with her."

Blaine's breathing had sped up without him noticing; his heart fluttering in his chest as his palms began to sweat uncomfortably. He couldn't look at Dr. Ramirez, who was still talking:

"This isn't an accusation, or any sort of judgment, Blaine—but it is a serious safety concern," she was saying, her neutral tone burning in his ears nonetheless. "When she said she'd tried to pack it for you but that you were nearly out of the alprazolam, I asked her to count the number of pills in each bottle, and I checked my notes to see when I last wrote a prescription for you."

Blaine was numb. "I don't have the right amount," he heard himself confessing, his fingers tightening around the pillow in his hands.

"You're a couple of weeks' short," Dr. Ramirez confirmed, setting her notes aside completely and folding her own hands in her lap. "Can you tell me why, Blaine?"

Blaine tried to shake his head. "My mom…" he began, before stopping, unable to concentrate on the question, only vaguely aware that he was in trouble and should be feeling something, _anything. _

_Why don't I feel anything?_

"I didn't say anything to your mother," Dr. Ramirez was saying, her voice barely breaking through the buzzing in Blaine's head. "I wasn't entirely sure what it was that I was looking at and, given that some of the possibilities are protected by patient confidentiality law, I thought it would be best to talk to you first."

Blaine nodded shakily.

Dr. Ramirez was still gazing steadily at him. "My first concern right now is your well-being," she stressed quietly, "not getting you in any sort of trouble. If you've been selling your pills"—Blaine's eyes widened; he hadn't even considered that she might think that—"it's obviously not ideal, but you'd hardly be the first person to do it, and we'll deal with it together."

Blaine shook his head before she could continue. "That's not—I haven't been doing that," he promised, swallowing painfully. "I haven't."

Dr. Ramirez nodded. "I didn't think you were," she agreed. "I'm more worried that maybe you've been taking your medication too often or in too large a dose, or that you might be stockpiling it somewhere. If either of those is the case, Blaine, I need you to understand that I'm not here to be angry or disappointed with you, and that it's much more important that you tell me the truth so that I can get you any immediate medical help that you might need. Do you understand that?"

Blaine's vision was beginning to swim, and he blinked several times before nodding.

Dr. Ramirez nodded back. "Good," she praised gently. "Thank you. Now, can you tell me what's been going on?"

Slowly, achingly, the whole story spilled out—how he'd taken an extra pill every once in a while at first, when his anxiety or depression became too much to handle. How switching his dosage when they had had helped for a little while, but that the nightmares after the Winter Ball had kept him from really sleeping and made everything harder to deal with.

How, over the last week and a half, he'd stopped caring what or how much he was taking, because it was the only thing that was helping. As long as he didn't have to feel.

"It sounds so stupid and self-destructive when I say it now," Blaine admitted, pressing his closed eyes with the palms of his hands. "Like I should have known better, or been smarter than that."

Dr. Ramirez looked up from her notepad, where she had been scribbling in time with Blaine's pathetic explanation. "Do you feel as though you should have known better?" she wanted to know.

Blaine opened his mouth to answer—and paused.

* * *

><p>After determining that Blaine hadn't done enough damage to necessitate an immediate trip to the hospital, Dr. Ramirez explained that she was going to have to slowly adjust all of his dosages over the next several weeks. "Drugs interact in your system," she noted. "If you change the amount you're taking of one prescription, you have to calculate the effect it'll have on the others, and compensate."<p>

Blaine agreed to whatever changes she needed to make, agreed to her discussing his case with the school nurse who'd be responsible for doling out his medication—"She's absolutely not allowed to talk about you with any of the other students," she'd promised—agreed to an additional therapy session over Skype each week while he was adjusting to everything, agreed that he'd _definitely_ call her or 911 if he was feeling even the tiniest bit suicidal.

"And Blaine?" Dr. Ramirez added, voice carefully neutral, "I think that this is something that your parents should be aware of."

Blaine sat up so quickly that his lower back spasmed. "Please don't," he begged, the awful potential scenarios of what would happen if his parents knew everything—his mother crying, undoing all of the progress he'd finally started making with his dad, them shipping him off to rehab in a misguided attempt to help him—unfolding in his mind. "I'm not going to…"

He swallowed. "I just really want to do everything right this time," he promised. "I just want to get better, and be _normal. _I won't do something like this again, I swear. Just, please don't tell them."

Dr. Ramirez looked at him. "You're certain that this won't happen again?" she asked.

Blaine nodded, eyes wide.

"And what happens when you do something else wrong?" she wanted to know.

Blaine frowned, confused. "…what?" he asked stupidly.

Dr. Ramirez shrugged. "Doing everything right, getting better—they're elusive concepts, Blaine," she explained. "And what's more, they're not always possible, depending on how you choose to define them. You might always experience some degree of anxiety or anger or depression, or you might not. I can tell you, you _will _always screw up sometimes, because you're human."

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Whether or not you tell your parents about what happened so that they can support you while you work through it, and so they're prepared for any symptoms you present with while you're readjusting, isn't the point," she stressed. "The point is, how do you cope when things don't turn out the way that you thought they were going to, and it feels like everything is falling apart?"

She was talking about Blaine's screw-up; he knew that. But it was still obvious to Blaine that that wasn't _all_ she was saying. "You think I'm making a mistake, going to Dalton," he said flatly, looking down at his feet.

If Dr. Ramirez reacted, Blaine didn't see it. "I think that you've given me a lot of good reasons for transferring schools," she responded evenly, "and from what I know about Dalton, I think it'll be a good fit for you. But I _am _a little concerned that you maybe haven't been completely honest with yourself about all the reasons that you want this."

This time, it was even clearer what Dr. Ramirez meant. "Kurt," Blaine exhaled, slumping uselessly into the couch.

Dr. Ramirez nodded seriously. "Kurt," she confirmed. "What about him?"

Blaine's eyes started to itch. He blinked ruthlessly to clear them. "I don't know," he admitted. "I just—I…"

He paused, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "I don't want to be the kind of person who runs away when things get hard, anymore," he explained slowly. "And right now, things are hard. I want him _so much_, and…but—"

Blaine sighed again, frustrated this time.

"I don't think I can be what he needs right now," he said finally. "I don't even _know _what he needs right now. And there are just so many things in the way, with his dad, and Jesse, and me leaving but not _leaving, _and…I don't even know if—"

Agitated, Blaine cut himself off abruptly before he could finish his thought.

_I don't even know if he wants to be with me anymore._

Something of what he was thinking must have shown on his face, though, because Dr. Ramirez's expression softened. "It's been a while since you've talked to him, hasn't it," she said gently, uncrossing and recrossing her legs.

She was wearing a red pencil skirt, and Blaine sniffed, subdued; Kurt would have loved the color.

When he didn't answer, Dr. Ramirez leaned forward slightly in her chair. "Blaine, let me ask you something, and take a minute to think about it, if you'd like," she requested. "Are you still in love with him?"

Something in Blaine's chest snapped at the question. "Yes," he answered immediately, completely sure. "That's not even—yes, of course I do."

Dr. Ramirez nodded. "Okay," she said, sitting back. "And in spite of all your recent difficulties, together and separately, is what the two of you have worth trying to fix?"

Blaine's grip on the pillow tightened again. "It is," he affirmed slowly, watching the tendons in the back of his hand as they shifted. "He's…"

Blaine swallowed. "He's not perfect," he confessed, glancing back up at Dr. Ramirez. "_We're _not perfect. But I love him. He makes me want to be better, and I know that I do the same for him. And maybe things won't work out between us, but they definitely won't if I don't try. I have to try, right?"

He sniffed, and Dr. Ramirez reached out and grabbed the box of tissues sitting on her desk. "You don't _have _to do anything," she corrected him gently, passing him the box. "But it sounds like you have a lot of compelling reasons to talk to him."

Blaine dabbed at his eyes with a tissue. "This is probably all really stupid to you, isn't it?" he commented with a hollow laugh. "Me thinking that I've found the love of my life in high school."

To his surprise, Dr. Ramirez raised an eyebrow. "Why would I think that?" she wanted to know. "Because you're sixteen, you're automatically disqualified?"

She tilted her head. "Blaine, maybe you and Kurt will get married right after graduating from college and stay together for the rest of your lives, or maybe you'll break up tomorrow," she pointed out. "But just because it might not last forever doesn't mean that it's not real love. And even if I don't subscribe to the notion that there's only one perfect match out in the universe for everyone, I _will _say that anyone who isn't willing to put in a little bit of work and patience, now and then, in order to keep a relationship healthy…"

Blaine sighed. "Probably isn't worth it," he finished. "He is. I just…don't know what to say. Or what to ask him. How to do any of this."

Dr. Ramirez studied him for a moment. "Can you ask him for some time to figure it out?" she wanted to know.

* * *

><p>At 4:37 am, Blaine tucked the eleventh draft of his letter into the pocket of Kurt's hoodie. It was a cowardly, inefficient way of making sure that Kurt got it, but at least when Kurt came over—and he <em>would <em>come over eventually, Blaine knew—he'd be alone. The idea that Jesse might still be staying with the Hummels, and might be the one to get the mail the day that Blaine's letter arrived, had been responsible for the accidental destruction of Draft #3.

After two weeks in Blaine's possession, only the faintest trace of Kurt's scent clung to the fabric of the sweatshirt. Blaine wrapped it around his pillow and cradled it while he slept anyway, his head resting right above the heart.

Seven hours and two minutes later, Blaine was moved into his new dorm room, and was walking into his first class at Dalton Academy.

* * *

><p>Blaine's first month at Dalton was incredibly difficult, for reasons that had nothing to do with the school.<p>

For days, he drifted. Like Dr. Ramirez had predicted, Blaine felt the effects of his medication misuse as his body slowly adjusted to his usual, smaller dosages, but she was also right that his symptoms weren't too severe—headaches, tiredness, a heaviness in his arms and legs that he couldn't remember feeling before. His moods swelled and dipped like waves, exhausting in their ceaselessness, but mild in intensity and soothing in their rolling consistency, at least.

He missed Kurt like a limb. It probably wasn't related to the medication.

Blaine's Thursday night appointment with Dr. Ramirez was held over Skype, so that he wouldn't have to leave school so quickly after arriving, and the promised phone call took place on Friday afternoon, once Blaine was done with his first week of classes and had locked himself into his pocket-sized dorm room for privacy; the speakers of his iPod dock aimed at the door to deter eavesdroppers. True to her word, Dr. Ramirez kept her tone even and the tale matter-of-fact, gently explaining to Blaine's mother that Blaine had been undergoing more stress over the previous few weeks than even _he _had realized, and had been unthinkingly taking his medication a little too often in order to compensate. That he might be a bit more anxious or volatile than usual for a couple of weeks, but that treating him normally and keeping the lines of communication open between them (and the extra appointments) were the best ways to support Blaine while he adjusted to all of the changes going on in his life.

His mother had tried to hide it, but her voice had gotten scratchy and high-pitched as she agreed to anything that Dr. Ramirez thought that Blaine might need, the way it always did when she was trying not to cry. It wasn't the worst that Blaine had ever felt, but neither was it the first time that he felt like his mother deserved a better son than him.

When Blaine hung up the phone after the mercifully short conference call, there was a message from Kurt waiting for him.

_I love you so much. Please call me whenever you're ready. I love you._

After shakily typing a response and crying for half an hour out of sheer relief, Blaine changed out of his uniform, brushed his teeth, and slept for fourteen hours in a row. If he dreamed at all, he didn't remember it.

* * *

><p>It took Blaine two weeks to get used to the more difficult coursework at Dalton.<p>

It took him significantly longer to get used to how abnormally _polite _everyone there was.

Unlike at Carmel, where Blaine spent his first month feeling like a specimen under a microscope, nobody at Dalton whispered about him behind his back, or pointed at him from across the cafeteria (the "dining hall", according to his Dalton Academy Student Handbook), or openly stared at him when he walked into the room. If Blaine did catch someone looking at him, it was always accompanied by a smile or a friendly nod, and he had lost track of the number of people who had cordially shaken his hand and introduced themselves by the end of his second day.

It was _weird. _But a good kind of weird, at least.

The worst offenders—if kindness could be considered an offense, and Blaine didn't count it as one—were the vaguely familiar-looking boys who approached him in pairs or trios in the hall, eager to help him find the math wing or the student lounge or wherever it was he was trying to get to with his awkwardly large, printed map. In his haze, it took Blaine an embarrassingly long time to recognize them all as Warblers, most of whom he'd previously met at least once or twice.

Strangely enough, and probably contributing to Blaine's confusion, not a single one of them mentioned anything about show choir or music in Blaine's presence, choosing instead to tell him all about the fencing and soccer teams (both popular choices), the debating club and student council (even more popular), or their classes (a necessary evil to get into Harvard or Yale). Blaine was alternately confused and grateful—he didn't _want _to talk about Vocal Adrenaline—or the Warblers yet, really—but he found it bizarre how everyone seemed to be avoiding the topic, especially given how he'd met most of them in the first place.

It occurred to him at one point that Kurt would have been thrilled by the prospect of an elite boarding school filled with Stepford-boys and shrouded in intrigue.

The thought almost made him smile.

* * *

><p>The first weekend that Blaine went home, his father took him out for ice cream.<p>

"Has Grandma ever brought you to that ice cream parlor near Kew Gardens?" he asked Blaine while they were waiting in line for their cones. "I can't remember if I ever told you this or not, but you had your first ice cream there when you were three."

Blaine looked at him curiously; he hadn't known that. "What flavor did I get?" he wanted to know.

His dad grimaced. "Chocolate Birthday Cake," he answered. "It looked disgusting. Your mom wanted to get you vanilla, since she was afraid that the chocolate flakes might be a choking hazard, but you were dead set on getting it because it was the brightest ice cream."

Blaine nodded absently, trying to picture his parents thirteen years younger and with a bossy, self-assured toddler in tow.

"Did I like it?" he wondered.

His dad smiled. "You did," he confirmed. "You liked it so much that you almost knocked over a table trying to share it with a baby sitting on the other side of the shop—you didn't think it was fair that she was the only one there who didn't get an ice cream."

"That sounds like something I would have done," Blaine admitted ruefully.

His father reached over and ruffled his hair. "I'm not so sure that you wouldn't do it again now, given the chance," he corrected gently.

* * *

><p>Three weeks after his arrival at Dalton, Blaine's headaches were nearly gone, but he was still constantly tired; a thorough, bone-deep weariness that was only partially alleviated by massive amounts of caffeine. Luckily, almost as if someone had anticipated his problem, there were coffee trays all over campus—in the dining hall, the student lounges, outside the faculty room, etc.<p>

The blend wasn't as delicious as Jesse's Columbian roast, but Blaine firmly blocked out that thought whenever it crept up on him unexpectedly.

The student lounge coffee was always the freshest, and Blaine was pouring his second cup of the morning—it was 8:00am—when Wes walked in and spotted him.

"Blaine, good morning," he greeted him, taking one of the stiff paper cups and filling it with hot water. "I haven't seen you since Monday; how has your week been?"

Blaine wasn't quite awake enough for conversation yet, but he shrugged politely anyway, deeply aware of Wes's seeming fondness for manners. "Fine," he answered, voice a bit hoarse from disuse. "How about you?"

Wes neatly tore open a teabag and dunked it into his steaming cup. "There was a slight mishap with the bus scheduled to take the Warblers to our performance at the Greater Oaks Nursing Home yesterday, but luckily it was sorted out in time. Besides that, nothing terribly exciting; thank you for asking."

Blaine started a bit at Wes's casual mention of the Warblers—and it must have shown, because Wes frowned slightly. "I hope none of them have been pestering you about auditioning," he said in an apologetic tone. "If the group had its way, you would have been ambushed with sheet music the minute you drove through the gate. They're under strict orders from the Council not to bother you about anything until you've had the opportunity to get settled in."

Only the fact that Wes was looking straight at him kept Blaine from rolling his eyes in amusement—mystery solved, apparently.

"They've been extremely non-bothersome," he assured Wes, who smiled proudly. Blaine didn't quite smile back. "Does you telling me this mean that my grace period is up?" he wondered out loud.

Wes's expression remained mild. "Only if you'd like," he promised. "But we'd be thrilled to have you audition, you know that—really, with your talent, it would be more of a formality than anything."

He looked hopefully at Blaine, who bit his lip nervously. "Wes, I don't know…" he trailed off, not certain what to say.

He missed singing, but the last time he had jumped into his new school's show choir without seriously thinking about it, it hadn't gone over spectacularly, in the end.

Wes was watching him sympathetically. "You don't have to give me an answer right away," he assured Blaine. "In fact, I'd encourage you to take a few days to think about it. If you're worried about the time commitment, though, I can promise you that we're certainly less ambitious than Vocal Adrenaline—we only practice three days a week, and we're quite lenient about attendance during exam weeks."

Blaine sighed. "I'm not…it's not that," he admitted slowly, wishing that he was back in bed instead of having _that _particular conversation. "It's…"

He shook his head.

"Vocal Adrenaline?" Wes suggested gently.

Blaine nodded.

Wed nodded back. "If it helps," he offered sagely, "the Warblers, while steeped in school pride and tradition, lack the national prestige that Vocal Adrenaline has. We have more room to be supportive and empathetic to each other, as individuals and as a group.

"And, if I may say so?" he added with a smile. "We're rather well-liked around the school, and not because of how we affect anyone's college application."

He added a spoonful of sugar to his tea. "I have first period physics, so I'd better be on my way," he told Blaine with a small, regretful smile. "Why don't you sleep on your decision? Let me know on Sunday what you think."

He waited patiently for Blaine to nod in agreement before leaving the room.

Blaine's coffee had gone lukewarm.

* * *

><p>Blaine had dialed the number fifteen times already, hanging up each time before it could ring. This time, however, he was determined to stay on the line. <em>It's only 2:15, <em>he reassured himself as he held the ringing phone up to his ear with sweating hands. _It's only 2:15, he's still in school; he won't answer._

Right before Blaine was about to give up and hang up, maybe try again some other time (preferably a time that was far, far off in the future), the phone clicked.

"_Hummel Tires & Lube," _a rough baritone voice answered. "_This is Jason, how can I help you?"_

Blaine almost dropped the phone.

"Uh, hello," he managed after a couple of seconds, remembering to lower his vocal pitch enough to make him sound older. "My name's David; I talked to Burt Hummel a few weeks ago about an old Chevy I needed help finding parts for. Is he available today?"

Jason hissed softly in his ear. _"He's not, actually," _he said in a regretful tone. "_Burt had a bad health scare recently, and he's been at home recovering for a couple of weeks now."_

Blaine was prepared for a similar answer—Kurt _would _have told him if the unthinkable had happened, Blaine _knew _it—but hearing it still caused a lump to form in his throat. "I'm so sorry to hear that," Blaine replied seriously, trying to sound appropriately sympathetic without betraying how much Burt's heart attack had actually affected him. "How is he doing?"

"_Well, he's not 100%, but he's getting better," _Jason shared. _"He'll probably be back in the shop part time in another week, if the doctor okays it."_

Blaine covered the receiver with his hand in order to hide his relieved sigh, the rigid tension in his frame relaxing at the good news.

On the other end of the phone line, Jason was still talking. "_If you want, I can check on those parts for you. Burt's kid'll be in in about half an hour, and he's actually faster than Burt at things like inventory."_

Blaine's mouth went dry at the mention of Kurt. "Y-yeah, he did say something about having a son," he stammered, trying to keep his tone even.

If Jason noticed his vocal tremor, he didn't comment on it. _"Yeah, he's in high school," _he continued instead, _"smartest kid alive. He's been bending over backwards since Burt got sick, trying to balance school and activities and the shop, all on top of taking care of his old man. Want me to have him call you about the parts?"_

A tear slipped down Blaine's cheek. He didn't wipe it away. "That's okay," he said, his voice a little rougher than before. "We hadn't talked specifics yet, so I'm still not sure what I need. I'll stop in sometime next month, when he's feeling better—give him my best."

Jason coughed. "_Sure thing, David," _he confirmed. _"Take care."_

* * *

><p>Wes was studying calculus in the student lounge when Blaine tracked him down on Sunday night.<p>

"Here's the thing," Blaine explained quickly, before Wes could say anything too convincing. "I haven't sung anything in almost a month, not since Regionals. And by the time I left Carmel, I wasn't sure I wanted to."

Wes remained quiet, while Blaine stared at his feet, swallowing.

"But I miss performing," he admitted, "and I think the last time I sang with anyone but my boyfriend and actually had fun was when I sang with the Warblers at Christmas. And I don't want to hold back from doing the things I like just because I'm afraid that they won't work out. If I audition and get in—"

"You will," Wes promised.

"If I audition and get in," Blaine repeated, determined, "can I just…try it for a few weeks and see if I like it? Without committing to the rest of the year?"

Wes was smiling. "We have a month-long trial period for new members, to make sure that anyone who passes the audition is a good fit for the group," he told Blaine. "I don't see why it can't go both ways. How does tomorrow after school sound?"

When they had worked out a specific time and place, Wes clapped Blaine on the shoulder. "For what it's worth," he told Blaine, "I think you're going to be just fine."

For the first time since he'd walked into the lounge, Blaine smiled.

"Yeah," he said. "I think so, too."


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29/? We're so close.

I feel like I say this every other chapter, but my apologies for taking so long to write and post this chapter—as I inch toward the ending, it seems to get more and more important that I fit in every significant detail and thread, before I run out of chances. Patience of saints, you have.

I don't own anything but a pile of reviews (that I swear I'm getting to; see above re:patience).

* * *

><p>One night when Kurt was hiding under the covers of his then-twin bed with a book and a flashlight, determined to find out what happened to little Charlie Bucket before one of his parents caught him and made him go to sleep, two police officers had come to the door to tell Burt that there had been an accident. Another driver, whose blood alcohol content had been just over the legal limit, had run a stop sign and had slammed into his wife's car. It had been instantaneous, they'd said, as Kurt crept barefoot down the hall to spy on the visitors, completely unaware of how his life was about to shatter. She had been killed on impact, and hadn't lived long enough to suffer, or even feel any pain.<p>

That was reserved solely for those left behind.

Years later when Kurt had thought that Burt was going to die, his anguish had been of a similar tenor, though inherently modified by age and the passage of time. And by frame of reference—losing a parent, especially as a child, was a distinct type of agony that only those who had experienced it for themselves could possibly understand.

Kurt was certain that his first grief counselor, the one he'd bitten in a fit of temper—followed by several hours of hysterical crying until Burt had agreed to find someone else for him to see—hadn't had that experience.

In any case, Kurt knew what raw, wrenching, bone-deep pain felt like, and being without Blaine—as hard as it was—wasn't nearly as bad as that. Still, _knowing_ that didn't make him feel any better, particularly when the hollow sadness left in the wake of Blaine's departure to Dalton was mixed with guilt; an adult's recognition of the role he'd played in causing his own unhappiness.

He wasn't responsible for his mother's death in any way, and however agonizing the year after the accident had been for him, at least he hadn't tortured himself with a misguided sense of blame and culpability. But even though Blaine might have chosen to leave on his own, Kurt couldn't pretend that he himself had nothing to do with the decision.

* * *

><p>People were starting to worry about him, Kurt knew.<p>

Nobody actually voiced their concerns out loud—or, at least, not directly to Kurt—but it was easy for him to guess what they were: how he was coping with his dad's health scare. How he was coping with his increasingly responsibility-laden schedule. How he was looking thinner, paler, sadder, more tired than usual. How suddenly his breakup with Blaine (speculated over by half of Carmel when they thought that Kurt wasn't listening, since nobody knew what had caused, it or had confirmed it with either party) and Blaine's transfer had happened on top of everything else, giving Kurt so little time to adjust.

The employees at the garage clapped him on the shoulder so hard and so often that Kurt was secretly worried that he might end up lopsided by the time he finished growing, and they found any and every excuse that they could to send him home early on the days that he came in. His teachers were watching him more closely, while at the same time calling on him less often and grading his work more leniently. Shelby, at least, still expected excellence from him, but her constructive criticisms lacked the sharp edge that Kurt knew she was capable of. And whether Sasha and the others had picked up on her pointed lack of venom and were following her lead, or whether they would have been kinder to him anyway, Kurt didn't know, but the announcement of Vocal Adrenaline's potential numbers for Nationals—which included Kurt's second solo of the year—was met with far fewer fake smiles and dirty looks than Kurt would normally have anticipated.

Giselle still smirked at him, of course, but she was a bitch and Kurt wouldn't have expected any different. Still, even she didn't have the nerve to mention Blaine in front of him.

The only person who did was his dad, and even then only twice: once to mention that he hadn't seen Blaine in a couple of weeks, and once to ask if they'd had some sort of fight that Kurt wasn't telling him about. Both times, Kurt's throat had closed over and his jaw had locked, and both times, his sudden, tense silence was enough to convince his dad to change the subject. Kurt was grateful for that. He loved his dad, and the amount of time that they'd spent together since Burt's heart attack had brought them closer; made it easier to talk about certain things than before. Still, telling his dad about Blaine wasn't the same as telling anyone else—anyone else, he could fool and misdirect if he wanted to.

Telling Burt would make everything _real. _And Kurt wasn't ready for that quite yet.

Instead, he'd kept busy: taking care of his dad, keeping the house running smoothly, cooking three heart-healthy meals a day. Stopping in at the shop several days a week and plowing through as much of the paperwork as he could before someone forced him out. Rehearsals with Vocal Adrenaline, as well as practices with Shelby or Zach. Studying every spare minute that he had, reading books and writing essays and conversing with himself in French. None of it made him particularly happy, but there was a certain kind of satisfaction in pushing himself to the limit; a curiosity he hadn't realized he had about just how hard he could work if he applied himself with every ounce of energy and willpower that he possessed.

It was a strange type of experiment with only himself as a subject, and enough of the time, it was a sorely needed distraction.

Sometimes, though, usually in the early hours of the morning when his body was too tired to let him sleep easily, he would lie awake in a state of fragile half-consciousness, and it would drift through his mind that it would have been nice to be able to cry; something that he hadn't done since the day that he had read Blaine's letter.

* * *

><p>Now that Vocal Adrenaline was preparing for Nationals, rehearsals were more grueling and intense than ever. Dakota Stanley taught and drilled them on choreography almost faster than the team could retain it, and Shelby coached them through all six potential songs in record time, directing and enhancing and picking at them hour after hour, day after day until their throats were stripped raw. Everyone was expected to stretch and warm up on their own before rehearsals began, in order to keep practices as productive as possible, and slacking off or failing to keep up was dealt with more harshly than usual.<p>

Not that that happened often—there was so much work to do, and so much riding on their success, that everyone rose to the challenge with the maniacal fervor that made Vocal Adrenaline such a force to be reckoned with. Routines were polished and perfected, run through again and again until even the weakest freshman could have performed the entire repertoire in his sleep.

And if most of the team spent their five minute breaks collapsed in a heap on the stage, remembering how to breathe normally while guzzling bottles of water and cans of energy drinks, none of their enemies had to know that.

Kurt didn't mind the extra work, even if (or maybe because) it meant that he hardly had the chance to talk to anyone. And, an unexpected perk of the situation, being so busy during rehearsals meant that he was too preoccupied with dance steps and lifts and high notes and controlling his diaphragm to spend much time worrying about Jesse.

He and Jesse hadn't spoken to each other since the day that Kurt had confronted him at his house, but Kurt had known Jesse too well and for too long to assume that their mutual quietness was permanent. They seemed to be in silent agreement, however, that whatever connection that was still between them was too delicate and damaged to risk dredging up in front of everyone else, or even anytime soon, and the chaotic rush that rehearsals had become was as good an excuse as any for the two of them to consistently be on opposite sides of the stage.

Still, Kurt noticed Jesse looking at him, sometimes. It was that, more than anything, which made Kurt certain that some of what he had said to Jesse that day must have hit home.

He wasn't sure how he felt about it all. On the days that he missed Blaine the most, seeing Jesse across the room or hearing him sing one of his many solos was enough to make him angry all over again. Other days, he just felt sorry—sorry for Jesse, for their gutted friendship, for the lingering sense of loss that hung over them both. One thing he knew, however: if he and Jesse were ever going to be friends again, it was going to have to be a different kind of friendship, one where the two of them met on equal terms.

Anything less than that simply wasn't worth it anymore.

* * *

><p>Kurt was drenched with sweat. Sunscreen was dripping into his eyes and irritating his contact lenses, and the collar of his costume shirt was definitely smeared with makeup. Next to him, Sasha was shifting her weight from one foot to the other, trying to take some of the pressure off of her toes after three straight hours of dancing in the black stiletto heels that all of the girls were wearing. Kurt didn't even have to look at her to sense the murderous vibrations rolling off of her in waves. And privately, he didn't blame her: if Shelby didn't eliminate one more number and finalize Vocal Adrenaline's Nationals program by the end of rehearsal, he wasn't going to hold himself responsible for his actions.<p>

The competition was a week away, and four numbers were still in contention: one group number, Kurt's solo, and two of Jesse's remaining pieces. Shelby had been relentless that day, making the team run the potential songs over and over again and in various orders, frowning and stopping them mid-number to change costumes and switch to a different routine more than once. Kurt's legs and lungs were exhausted, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd needed a shower so badly.

_The day you had your first date with Blaine, when Mrs. Parkinson's minivan had that fuel leak, _his brain helpfully reminded him, making him stumble out of a turn.

Shelby raised a delicately arched eyebrow at him, and he grimaced apologetically as he stepped back into formation.

_Stop thinking and dance, _he ordered himself sternly.

He managed to make it through rehearsal without another mistake.

* * *

><p>Kurt frowned as he drove home that evening, his toxically sweaty costumes thrown into one of the three large bins that were probably already being carted to VA's preferred dry cleaner. Even before he'd gotten distracted and stumbled, Shelby had spent far more time than usual staring at him during rehearsal that afternoon, and it had been…unsettling.<p>

He sighed as he turned onto his street. Obviously, Shelby had only been watching him because there was a reasonable chance that he was going to be one of her featured soloists in just over a week—_Bohemian Rhapsody _had brought the house down at Regionals, and _Shut Up and Drive _would probably be chosen since it was their only group number left, leaving the third slot open for either Kurt or Jesse. Still, there had been a number of times, even when he wasn't the one singing lead, that Kurt had looked out into the audience to find Shelby watching him, an almost thoughtful expression on her face.

Kurt parked the Navigator in the driveway behind his dad's truck and yanked his keys out of the ignition. He was even more off-balance than he'd thought if he was unnerved by a little positive attention, instead of reveling in it.

* * *

><p>Kurt knew that something was different the second that he stepped into the house late Saturday afternoon, but it wasn't until he'd shed his coat and shoes and walked down the hall into the kitchen that he knew what it was: the counter near the sink was covered in take-out containers, and his dad was sitting at the table, grinning as he waited for Kurt's reaction.<p>

It was swift in coming. "_Dad,"_ Kurt reprimanded sharply, the initial shock at Burt's flouting of the doctors' advice starting to fade as his anger grew to replace it. "What are you—you're not supposed to—"

His dad was still smiling. "Easy, Kiddo," he soothed, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, "this isn't what it looks like, I promise. I called that Thai place you like and asked the girl on the phone to pick out the healthiest stuff on the menu; it's all chicken and vegetables, and none of that NSG crap you hate."

"MSG," Kurt corrected automatically, shoulders relaxing—he still wasn't thrilled, but the situation wasn't nearly as bad as he'd thought if Burt had really gone to all that effort to appease him and stick to his diet.

For some reason. "Why?" he wondered out loud, looping his bag over the back of his chair and sitting down across from Burt.

Burt's grin slipped a little. "Your letter from that summer program came while you were at school today," he explained, fingers drumming nervously on the table. "I was gonna bring it to you when I realized what it was, but you were in rehearsal already, and I didn't think you'd want to open it in front of everyone."

Kurt's breath caught in his throat.

His dad was looking at him, concerned. "Want me to open it for you?" he offered, leaning forward in his seat a little. "Get it over with?"

Kurt exhaled sharply. "No," he decided, "I can do it. Where…?"

Burt reached over and lifted up the newspaper that had been sitting on the table. Underneath it was a white envelope with Kurt's name and address printed in the center; the fancy typography in the upper left corner indicating that it was, indeed, from The Academy.

Kurt slid it across the table with shaking fingers. So much had happened since his audition—his dad's heart attack, everything with Blaine, preparing for Nationals—that he hadn't given The Academy a whole lot of thought since he'd gotten back from his daytrip to Columbus. Now that the letter had actually arrived, however, all of the stress that he'd been ignoring or suppressing was hitting him at once, and Kurt's stomach lurched unpleasantly at the idea of having to find out what the auditors had really thought of him.

Slowly, he flipped the envelope over and peeled the flap open.

And paused.

"Whatever it says, it's going to be okay," his dad reminded him quietly, reaching across the table to gently squeeze his wrist. "I want you to get in because I know that's what you want, but I'm proud of you either way. Got it?"

Kurt nodded in response, swallowing dryly.

He pulled the letter out of the envelope and unfolded it before he could lose his nerve.

_Dear Mr. Hummel,_ it read,

_Congratulations! You have been accepted into the Young Pre-Professional Summer Performance Academy's __**2010**__ session as a student of __**Musical Theatre. **__This summer's incoming class of students was drawn from our most competitive pool of applicants in the history of the program, and the difficulty of the selection process is a direct reflection of the hard work and talent of not only those who were successful in securing a place in their program of choice, but of…_

The letter went on, but Kurt had stopped reading after the first few sentences, stunned. He'd been accepted by The Academy, the most rigorous and competitive performing arts program in the country.

He'd gotten in.

"…Buddy?" he heard his dad asking, "What does it say?"

Still speechless, Kurt handed him the letter.

A few seconds later, Burt let out a joyful, wordless shout, and Kurt felt himself flying up out of his chair as Burt yanked him roughly into a hug, spinning them both and laughing with some combination of happiness and relief. His arms were strong around Kurt's back, and Kurt held onto his shoulders just as tightly, allowing himself to get swept up in his dad's excitement, if only for a few seconds.

When Burt set him down on his feet a moment later, his eyes were shining. "I knew you'd get it! I'm _so _happy for you, Kiddo," he said earnestly, his grip on Kurt's ribs tightening almost painfully. "We've gotta start planning; make sure you're ready to go."

He let go of Kurt with one hand, snatching the letter off of the table and scanning it again. "It says here that you start on June 22nd," he read. "When's your last day of school?"

Kurt shook his head slowly. "I don't know," he murmured, starting to feel sick with dread as the reality of what he was going to have to do began to sink in.

Burt clapped him on the shoulder and let go. "That's okay, we'll look it up on the calendar," he said dismissively. "If it's the week before, I can—"

"No," Kurt interrupted before Burt could continue, his voice hoarser than he'd realized it was, "I don't know if I'm going."

There was an awkward silence.

"What do you mean, you don't know if you're going?" his dad asked, after a minute. "Of course you're going; this is what you wanted. You've been saving up to go for almost a year."

Kurt swallowed again. "I know," he admitted quietly. "But Dad, you're still sick, and I—"

"Kurt, I'm fine," Burt cut him off, looking at him seriously. "I'm already back at the garage part-time, and I've been going for walks and eating healthier and everything."

Kurt bit his lip nervously. "I know," he repeated. "But we've got a nurse coming over next weekend while I'm gone, and I'm only going to be away for three days—we're talking about a _whole summer, _Dad."

It had been Burt's doctor's idea to hire a private nurse to check in on him while Kurt was competing in Nationals. "_Quite a few of the nurses who do rounds in the cardiac wing pick up extra hours outside the hospital on a per diem basis,"_ he'd assured Kurt, when Kurt had realized that leaving the state with Vocal Adrenaline meant that Burt would be alone for the long weekend, and had subsequently panicked. _"If having someone come by for an hour a day would put you at ease, it might be worth looking into—they can get you a list of names and phone numbers at the information desk, if you'd like."_

Kurt had liked, and Carole Hudson, the nurse who had let Kurt in to see his dad without forcing him to show his I.D., was scheduled to look in on Burt twice while Kurt was gone.

Burt was shaking his head. "Yeah, and if you were leaving for eight weeks starting tomorrow, I'd say you had a point," he acknowledged. "But your program doesn't start for another month. And sure, maybe I won't be 100% by then, but I'll be a lot better than I am right now, right?"

Kurt slumped a little, wavering.

Burt leaned in slightly, forcing Kurt to meet his eyes. "Listen," he said carefully, staring steadily at Kurt. "Nothing bad is going to happen to me just because you take some time for yourself to do what you want. Don't give up this opportunity just because you're scared, all right? I'd never force you to go if you really didn't want to, but…"

Kurt shook his head, blinking rapidly. "I'm not scared," he argued, "I just…"

He paused. "I don't know," he said quietly, finally. "I don't know what I'm thinking right now."

Burt nodded. "I get it," he offered, tone soothing, "you're under a lot of pressure right now." He glanced back down at the letter on the table. "Look, they don't need your decision until the 5th," he pointed out. "So why don't you sleep on it for a little while? Talk to your coach, go on your trip. We can talk about it some more when you get back. Okay?"

Kurt felt the lump in his throat dissipate slightly. "Okay," he managed, nodding. "I love you, Dad."

Burt smiled at him, but the worried look in his eyes still remained. "Love you too, Buddy," he replied, ruffling Kurt's hair. "Now, how about we sit down and have some of those tasteless vegetables?"

* * *

><p>It took Kurt a long time to fall asleep that night.<p>

He'd gotten into The Academy. He'd wanted to go for more than a year, ever since Jesse's second acceptance letter had arrived and he'd spent weeks telling Kurt about the instructors and exercises and the network of famous performers that were tied to the program, many of whom frequently returned to take or teach master classes. It was an artistic retreat, and an incredible opportunity—no other program or school was its equal in prestige or influence, and a good recommendation from them would open doors for Kurt that he might never get through otherwise.

And, if he was being honest with himself, a tiny part of him really wanted to go in order to prove that he could. If he succeeded at The Academy, nobody would ever be able to tell him that he wasn't good enough, or talented enough, or hardworking enough.

Rolling over onto his stomach, Kurt buried his face into one of his pillows.

_Dad._

Because his dad's heart attack hadn't happened until after his audition, Kurt hadn't been forced to think about the possibility of his going away while Burt still needed him. The second the letter had been put into his hands, however, the unpleasant realization that he could hardly be in two places at once had begun to sink in, and he had known even as he opened the envelope that he would be spending the summer in Lima, accepted or not.

And there had been a single, horrible moment when Kurt had almost hoped that the letter would be a rejection, depriving him of the responsibility of having to deny himself and do what was right, instead.

His lungs began to protest their lack of oxygen, and Kurt rolled back over onto his back with a sigh.

His dad hadn't said anything else about The Academy during dinner, but Kurt knew that he was merely biding his time until after Nationals. It was obvious that he thought he was well enough for Kurt to leave him for almost two months, and that he hated being the reason that his son was turning down such an incredible opportunity.

_But that can't be the only reason, _Kurt realized suddenly, his dad's imploring expression when Kurt had told him that he wasn't sure he could go seared into his memory. Because if his heart was really in it, he would have let his dad talk him into leaving without putting up a fight—they couldn't afford to hire a nurse to come over and take care of Burt in his absence, the way they were doing in order to get through the next weekend, but the Hummels were nothing if not resourceful; if there was a possible solution, the two of them would come up with it eventually.

Giving up without a fight—or an exhaustive internet search on how to care for an ailing parent from hundreds of miles away with almost no money—wasn't like him, and it wasn't something that Kurt would have done if Burt's illness was his only concern.

_The problem is, _he brooded petulantly_, that_ _I don't know what my problem is. _

He glanced around the room, as if it somehow held the answers, and his eyes fell on the picture of his mother that Blaine had given him for Christmas.

Kurt bit his lip. _God, it would be so easy to blame this on him._

And it would have been, but Kurt knew that it also would have been a lie: he might be desperately unhappy at times because of how strained his relationship with Blaine had become, but he could be unhappy about it at The Academy just as easily as anywhere else. And if Blaine's parents really were sending him to spend most of the summer with his Grandma, like Blaine had suspected, then there was no real reason why Kurt needed to stay behind.

Climbing out of his bed, Kurt crept over to his dresser and picked up the picture. His mother smiled back at him, beautiful and young and so, so beyond his reach.

Kurt blinked harshly, stemming the tears that were forming in his eyes and threatening to fall.

_What's wrong with me? _

* * *

><p>"Nothing is wrong with you," Shelby told him sternly, giving him a hard look over the rim of her coffee cup. "You're having doubts, which is completely understandable—you've been going through a lot of upheaval since the audition process, and you're not in the same space that you were when you applied. It doesn't mean that you don't want it, or that you don't recognize what a fantastic opportunity it is for you; it just means that you're aware of the sacrifices you're making."<p>

Kurt nodded tiredly. Once again, he was in Shelby's office ridiculously early on a Monday morning, seeking advice. He'd brought her another latte and had spilled the whole story—learning, in the process, that an administrative assistant at The Academy had phoned to let her know that he had been accepted during classes on Friday. Which answered one question, at least.

But not the one he was hoping for. "So…you think that I should go," he reasoned slowly, watching Shelby's face for clues that he was interpreting her advice correctly.

Her expression didn't budge. "I think you should think about it, like your dad said," she amended, taking another sip of her coffee. "I can't tell you what's right for you, but I can tell you that this is a big decision either way, and you should take your time making it."

She frowned sympathetically. "I know that things…haven't been easy for you lately, Kurt," she offered carefully. "And I don't just mean everything with your dad. I don't—"

Shelby paused. "I don't see everything that goes on with you guys, especially lately," she admitted, not quite looking at Kurt. "But I know you, Kurt, and the you that I've been seeing lately…he's been depressed, and maybe a little lost."

Kurt bit the inside of his cheek, not sure whether or not to protest.

Shelby shook her head. "But things are going to get better for you, Kurt, if you just do your best and slog through it. You're a good kid, and good things are going to happen for you, with or without Sarita and The Academy."

It was possibly the most openly complementary thing Shelby had ever said to him, and Kurt couldn't help but smile a little. "Thank you," he responded quietly.

"You're welcome," Shelby replied. "And don't screw up this weekend, got it? I'm taking a chance on an underclassman because I believe you've got what it takes—don't make me regret it."

It took Kurt a minute to realize the significance of what Shelby had said. When he figured it out, his head snapped up automatically.

Shelby was smiling. "Come see me during your lunch period today," she ordered. "If you're singing a solo in front of a competition audience, we've got to make sure you can nail every single note."

* * *

><p>The rest of the week flew by in a flurry of classes and rehearsals, homework and shop paperwork and doctor's appointments until suddenly it was Thursday night, less than 48 hours before the National Show Choir Competition was scheduled to begin. Two district busses would be arriving at Carmel by 7:30 the next morning to take Vocal Adrenaline—and their massive amounts of luggage and costumes—to the airport for their 10:15 flight to LAX, and Kurt's suitcase was already waiting by the front door, only the few items that he'd need in the morning left unpacked.<p>

Burt was distracted after dinner by a phone call from one of his old high school buddies, so it was easy for Kurt to slip out of the house as the sun was setting, leaving a note on the table claiming that he was out picking up a few more travel-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner for his trip. Well aware of Kurt's distrust of hotel-provided toiletries, his dad probably would have believed him anyway, but if Kurt had to lie to Burt at all, he preferred to do it on paper.

And in this case, a lie was necessary: the idea of explaining to Burt why he had to go to the Zoo on a Thursday night—the Thursday night right before his flight to Los Angeles, no less—was just too much for Kurt.

* * *

><p>Blaine's lions had gotten so big since the first time that Kurt had seen them. They still weren't finished growing, if the size of their mother was any indication, but Kurt couldn't think of them as babies anymore, the way that he initially had. They were almost too big for their exhibit, even counting the large outdoor pen that was attached to their indoor room, and Kurt had no idea what the zoo was going to do with them once they had fully grown up, leaving them with four adult cats.<p>

"They'd better keep you," he murmured quietly, watching the one little lion who was closest to the fence as she paced, the only one of the three no-longer-cubs who wasn't sleeping in the corner. "Blaine loves you so much."

_Blaine_. If there was anyone in the world that Kurt wanted to call about his Academy letter, it was Blaine. He still had no idea what to do about the summer and his dad, even though he'd been thinking it over like Burt and Shelby had both suggested, nor did he have a clue what would be best for _him _anymore—and even if Blaine didn't have any answers either, at least Kurt would feel safe and loved instead of so hopelessly alone.

But Blaine had asked for space and Kurt had promised to give it to him, and Kurt was determined to keep his promises this time, even when they became difficult not to break. So he had come to see the closest thing he had left to Blaine, instead.

The little awake lion had stopped her pacing and was sniffing in his direction, and Kurt smiled sadly back at her. "I don't know which one you are," he admitted softly, "Mali or Priya, or—I don't know. But Blaine does, and I know that he must drive out here from school to see you, or maybe he comes on the weekends."

He paused, gripping the fence with both hands. "The next time he's here, tell him I love him, okay? And that I miss him, and that I know that he needs more time, but everything is just so much _harder _without him, and—"

Kurt cut himself off, inhaling sharply.

The lion looked at him. If she recognized him, she didn't show it—or maybe she did, and Kurt was just a dumb human who couldn't see what was right in front of him.

"Sorry," he apologized stupidly, closing his eyes. "You were probably doing just fine until I got here, weren't you?"

When Kurt looked up again, the lion was lying down on the ground, watching him with her inscrutable expression that could have meant anything or nothing at all. "Right," he muttered faintly, brushing a loose strand of hair out of his eyes. "Sorry to dump all of that on you; I just miss him. But that's not your fault."

He glanced at his watch, then grimaced. "I've got about three minutes before they lock the gates with me inside, so I should go," he informed the lion—Priya_, _he decided; maybe he was wrong, but it was easier to think of her by any name, whether he was accurate or not.

As if she would have known the difference. "Goodnight, Princess," he sighed, heading toward the door. "I'll see you when I get back to Ohio."

She blinked a sleepy goodbye at him on his way out, and Kurt drove home in the dark, hoping that Burt would still be on the phone when he got home.

He slept badly that night, images of Blaine feeding his lions and smiling beautifully keeping him awake until nearly dawn.

* * *

><p>The flight to California was predictably boring. Under strict instructions not to speak unless it was absolutely necessary (a strained vocal cord was worse than a bullet wound during Nationals), to finish their airline-provided pretzels and bottles of water (the usual method of replacing lost fluids with an IV drip would leave needle marks, so avoiding dehydration was key), and not to fall asleep (the time zone change was not in their favor as it was), there wasn't much left for the team to do but read or watch the in-flight movie.<p>

One look at Adam Sandler's face in what obviously wasn't _The Wedding Singer _was enough to have Kurt scrambling for his book.

Once the plane touched down in LA, it was more of the same: a shuttle bus waiting for them at the airport whisked them off to the hotel where they (and at least three other teams, given the commotion in the lobby) were staying, three blocks away from the Convention Center where the competition was being held. Shelby went alone to register Vocal Adrenaline, giving everyone an hour and a half to unpack and freshen up before they spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in last-minute rehearsals for the next day, only stopping for a thirty minute dinner break.

"Apparently,we _used_ to go to the official Kickoff Meet & Greet, instead of being confined to our hotel floor the night before the competition," James confided in Kurt from the desk in their suite that evening, where he was trying to access the hotel's wireless network. "But rumor has it that someone from one of the other teams tried to sabotage us the year that Nationals were in Baltimore by sneaking shellfish into our lead singer's pasta. She went into anaphylactic shock and had to be rushed to the hospital, and now Shelby carries half a dozen EpiPens in her purse and won't let us go anywhere, just in case."

Andy, who was sprawled across his and Kurt's bed—with four people to a room, everyone was sharing with someone else—looked morbidly interested. "Did they ever catch who did it?" he asked, eyes lit up with interest.

James shrugged. "I don't know for sure; that was Alicia's freshman year, so I was only eight or nine at the time," he explained, naming the elder of his two big sisters, both of whom had also been in Vocal Adrenaline.

His smile took on a dangerous quality. "I do seem to remember something about the third place team's auditorium being permanently closed that summer, though," he added, keeping his tone neutral. "Something about five hundred pounds of rotting oysters contaminating the whole building during a record-breaking heat wave."

They went to bed soon after that, mindful of their 5:30am wakeup call, and Kurt fell asleep listening to James's hushed voice as he told them story after story about Vocal Adrenaline, passing down more of his sisters' stories as well as telling his own.

"Four years," he murmured after a while, just as Kurt was finally drifting off. "It's hard to believe that everything ends on Sunday."

* * *

><p>Despite being 5th in the program lineup, Vocal Adrenaline was the first team to arrive at the Convention Center on Saturday morning, stumbling in the front door with their Carmel-subsidized Starbucks immediately behind the head of the building's custodial staff, who looked as tired as Kurt felt.<p>

An hour and a half later, the stage was discreetly marked with thin strips of glow-in-the-dark tape, indicating their starting positions for each number, their costumes were securely locked in VA's private dressing room (theirs until 2:30, when it would be taken over by an all-girl choir from Miami), and Shelby had commandeered one of the dozen pianos scattered throughout the building and was leading everyone in an extended vocal warm-up. Despite not being entirely awake yet—jet lag was a vicious, vindictive bitch—Kurt found it relatively easy to concentrate on the tone and tenor of his voice, and then on the comfortable stretching of his muscles when Ben began their familiar dance warm-up.

_Or maybe being tired is actually helping, _he mused, as Shelby gave them a final pep talk before dismissing them for half an hour, ordering them to be back in the dressing room when the first group took the stage in order to get costumed and made up before their own call time. _If I'm not awake, I can't be nervous about singing my first competition solo in front of eight thousand people._

Checking his watch, Kurt grabbed his phone out of his duffle bag and weaved his way through his teammates and out into the hall. If he hurried, he could squeeze in one last phone call to his dad before Burt left for the afternoon shift at the shop.

Or maybe wake him up—he could never remember what time zone he was in, relative to home.

* * *

><p>Kurt was ten feet away from the dressing room door when his phone rang in his hand, twenty-eight minutes later.<p>

He didn't even look at it as he answered. "I'll be there in five seconds," he promised whichever one of his impatient teammates that was calling him, "I'm right outside."

Grabbing the door handle, Kurt pulled the phone away from his ear, ready to hang up and turn the sound off until after the competition.

And stopped, frozen in place: Blaine's picture was lit up on the screen, dark eyes smiling shyly at him through impossibly long eyelashes.

Kurt's hand flew back up to his ear so quickly that he nearly dropped the phone. "Blaine?" he asked hurriedly, his mouth suddenly dry and his stomach clenching with more nerves than he'd felt all day.

There was a long, terrible pause, and Kurt was almost beginning to worry that Blaine had hung up on him—or, even worse, that he had pocket-dialed him by mistake and hadn't really wanted to talk to him at all—when he heard a soft sigh.

"…Hi, Kurt," Blaine said quietly.

Kurt's eyes were suddenly, messily filled with tears, and he let go of the doorknob and sat down with his back against the nearest wall before his legs could betray him and collapse. "Hi," he breathed back just as softly, too mentally incoherent to say anything else.

It seemed to be enough for Blaine, however, and Kurt's grip on the phone grew painfully tight as he instinctively pressed it closer to his ear.

"I just…" Blaine began, before sighing and starting over. "I wanted to call and wish you—break a leg, today."

He paused. "I didn't know when you were going on, though, since I don't know the performance order, and the time difference and everything," he rambled apologetically. "Am I too late?"

Kurt shook his head, forgetting for a moment that Blaine couldn't see him. "No," he managed to gasp, choking back a sob even as tears were running freely down his cheeks, "No, we're not on for another half an hour; you're not too late."

Kurt heard a strangled hiss over the phone, and Blaine's voice was pained as he spoke. "Oh no, don't—don't cry," he stammered. "Kurt, _please_ don't cry. God, I shouldn't have called, I should have—"

"Don't you dare hang up," Kurt cut him off mid-sentence. "So what if I'm crying, I don't care."

"But you have to sing," Blaine reminded him, "and—"

"_I don't care_," Kurt repeated, not bothering to keep the tears out of his voice anymore. "You're here, that's what I care about. It's been _weeks, _and I've been—I didn't know how much I needed to hear your voice until right now."

"I'm so sorry, Kurt," Blaine choked out, clearly starting to cry as well. "I'm so sorry that I wasn't there for you. I've missed you _so _much."

Kurt's tears were beginning to soak the collar of his shirt, and he wiped his face distractedly with his sleeve. "I miss you too," he managed to reply, "_god_, Blaine. It's been _so hard_ without you."

"I know," Blaine answered quickly, his breath hitching, "I know. I have post it notes all over the place in my school notebooks, in my dorm room—every time I think of something that I want to tell you and you aren't there. There must be hundreds of them, by now."

Kurt opened his mouth—he didn't know what he was going to say, but that hadn't stopped him so far—but before he could speak, there was a hand on his shoulder.

"Kurt, we've gotta go," someone was saying, and Kurt shook his head, wanting whoever it was to leave him alone. The hand gripped his shirt insistently, however, and Kurt looked up to see Sasha staring down at him, a worried expression on her face.

He sighed. "I have to go," he told Blaine sadly, feeling his chest tightening anxiously, "I'm supposed to be—"

"No, I know, I'm sorry," Blaine interrupted, sounding as wrecked as Kurt felt. "You're going to be amazing today, Kurt. I love you so much."

A fresh wave of tears filled Kurt's eyes. "Can I call you?" he asked quickly, before Blaine could hang up. "When I get back to Ohio? I need to—I just really want to see you again, or even just talk to you, if you're not ready."

"I—yeah," Blaine stammered, exhaling softly in Kurt's ear. "Yes. Call me when you get home. I—I want that, too."

Kurt bit down on his lip to keep from sobbing with relief. "I will," he promised. "I can't wait. I really have to go, though."

Blaine laughed. "Go, Kurt. I love you."

Kurt closed his eyes, smiling. "I love you, too. I'll talk to you soon."

He waited for Blaine's quiet "Bye, Kurt," before hanging up, then turned his phone off and handed it to Sasha.

Her face softened as she slipped it into her pocket. "You are so late," she admonished gently, holding out a hand and helping him to his feet. "And your face is a mess."

Kurt grimaced, feeling the salty tear tracks on his cheeks as they pulled slightly at his skin. "I know," he agreed apologetically. "I'm sorry."

Sasha nodded. "Did you do what you needed to do?" she wanted to know. When Kurt nodded back, she smiled softly at him. "Go wash your face, and I'll do your makeup," she ordered, turning him around and steering him toward the men's room. "Your eyes are so bloodshot, you'd probably stab yourself in the face with the mascara wand, and then we'd all be in trouble."

Kurt couldn't help but sniff a little. "I love you," he told Sasha, who rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, well, you just love everyone right now, don't you," she pointed out, smirking. "Tell you what—get through this performance, and maybe I'll return the favor."

* * *

><p>The curtain was made of heavy black velvet; sprinkled with dust and close enough that Kurt could have reached out and touched it, if he'd wanted to. Vocal Adrenaline's championship performance the year before had begun with everyone backstage, and Kurt had forgotten at some point that the stagehands lowered the main curtain between groups at Nationals, in order to give each choir the same opportunity to set up in privacy.<p>

With nothing but a wall of fabric and twenty feet of empty space separating him from several thousand people, all of whom were eager to see what the Vocal Adrenaline Machine was going to pull off this year, however, it seemed impossible to Kurt that he could have forgotten the only protection he had left. The anxiety that had been absent all weekend was finally beginning to catch up with him, and Kurt took a deep, shuddering breath, determined to calm back down before his lungs began to spasm.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so incredibly small. He wished his dad was there. And his mom. And Blaine.

_Blaine. _

Out in the auditorium, the thunderous voice of the Master of Ceremonies announced Vocal Adrenaline's name and defending championship status, and the sound of applause filled the room, ringing in Kurt's ears and overwhelming all of the nervous voices in his head.

Whether he was ready or not, it was Showtime.

Slowly, the curtain began to rise.

* * *

><p>When Shelby had first played Kurt the song that she wanted him to sing at Nationals, all the air had rushed out of his lungs, and he'd struggled to hold himself together even as he refused.<p>

"_I can't sing that," he'd argued weakly, "not after—it's just too much right now, Shelby. I'm sorry."_

_Shelby had shaken her head in disagreement. "It's the perfect song for you, and you know it," she'd maintained. "I know everything feels a little distressing for you right now, and that's all right. _Use_ it."_

"_I can't," Kurt had persisted, aware that she had a point but still unwilling to face it. "Jesse can do it; he's got the range for it, and—"_

"_Jesse is an incredibly gifted singer," Shelby had interrupted evenly, "but he doesn't sing with his heart. You do, Kurt, and I haven't always encouraged that because I thought that you needed time to build up your dynamics and raw abilities, first. But it's time, Kurt, and the only thing that's going to stop you from being extraordinary is you. You can do this."_

Behind him, Danny played a quiet opening note, and the familiar music began.

Gripping the microphone in front of him so tightly that a tiny, detached part of himself was surprised when it didn't shatter in his hand, Kurt took a deep breath and began to sing.

"_I found the pieces in my hand; they were always there, it just took some time for me to understand; _

_You gave me words I just can't say, so if nothing else, I'll just hold on while you drift away…"_

His voice, high and clear, rang out beautifully in the enormous space, cleaner and sadder and more breathtaking than it had ever been before. He didn't take the time to appreciate it, diving into the chorus as a small cross-section of singers softly began to harmonize underneath the melody. Jesse was among them, Kurt knew, but for once his voice didn't stand out from the group—he was blending perfectly with the others, letting Kurt have his moment without trying to overshadow him.

Kurt was grateful to him for that.

"_The cities grow, the rivers flow; where you are I never know, but I'm still here,_

_If you were right and I was wrong, why are you the one who's gone and I'm still here?"_

The rest of Vocal Adrenaline was onstage by the end of the bridge, but Kurt didn't turn around, choosing instead to close his eyes as he started the third, and the hardest, verse:

"_I held the pieces of my soul; I was shattered, and I wanted you to come and make me whole,_

_And then I saw you yesterday, but you didn't notice,_

_And you just walked away."_

Forcing his eyes open, Kurt let the choir carry him through the chorus. Everything he was feeling—all the grief and longing and sadness and anger and hope, most of all hope—was written all over him, and that, so much more than being the loudest or the most precise, was what mattered.

Which was good, because Kurt couldn't have stopped it for anything. Not after his conversation with Blaine had stripped away all of his defenses and left him, raw and exposed, on the stage in front of everyone.

And besides that, he had a song to finish.

"_The lights go out, the bridges burn, once you've gone you can't return, but I'm still here,_

_Remember how you used to say I'd be the one to run away, but I'm still here._

_I'm still here."_

The applause was deafening, and only grew louder as the crowd rose to its feet and gave Kurt Hummel his first personal standing ovation.

Smiling professionally, Kurt took a single, appreciative bow, and then quietly exited the stage as the team arranged themselves for the next number.

* * *

><p>As anyone at the competition could have predicted in their sleep, the rest of Vocal Adrenaline's performance was exquisitely flawless.<p>

Mindful of the abrupt emotional transition between Kurt's solo and the group number that followed it, Shelby had pulled Kurt out of the second piece, putting two sopranos on the countertenor part with Andy and giving him a few minutes to recover and change outfits before Jesse closed out their set with his stunning, highly anticipated rendition of _Bohemian Rhapsody. _The vocals were more than solid, the dancing was crisp and visually spectacular, and as the curtain finally fell—Jesse had bowed three times, to tremendous accolades—it briefly occurred to Kurt that he felt incredibly sorry for whichever unlucky choir was sixth in the program lineup.

According to the fliers posted in every hallway, dressing room, and restroom in the building, eighteen of the twenty-nine groups that had both qualified and made it to Nationals were scheduled to perform on Saturday. The other eleven would finish early the next afternoon, giving the judges plenty of time to deliberate and finalize their rankings before the Awards Presentation and the official Closing Ceremonies on Sunday evening. Except for the awards, which were mandatory for obvious reasons, only the freshmen were required to stay for any of it (or else be forcibly shipped back to the hotel). The rest of the older students were welcome to remain and watch the other performances if they felt like it, but were otherwise free to explore Los Angeles—"In groups of three or more, and _legal activities only,_" Shelby had warned them sternly the night before, "I am _not _explaining to anyone's parents why their child suddenly has a tattoo written in a language they can't actually speak."—until 7:00pm, when the entire team would meet in the hotel lobby to go out for a celebratory dinner.

Although all Kurt wanted to do was go to the hotel and sleep until it was time to take the shuttle bus back to the airport, he ended up appeasing Sasha and James by agreeing to meet them for a late lunch after he had the chance to shower and take a short nap (and if he was breaking Shelby's rule by going alone, well, nobody had to know).

And he had every intention of keeping his promise, but for some reason, changing out of his costume and washing off all of his makeup had become tasks of insurmountable difficulty that required far more effort than usual, and by the time he was finally dressed and cleaned up, he was the only one left in the dressing room, and he couldn't seem to persuade his useless body to move from its slumped, hopeless sprawl in front of the mirror.

_Get up, _he urged himself impatiently. _You just impressed an enormous crowd, you're in a spectacular city with friends that want to spend time with you, and Blaine is talking to you again. There's no reason for you to be alone, acting like someone shot the puppy that you will never have because dog hair on everything you own, God. _

The pep talk was, shockingly, less than helpful.

Kurt glared tiredly at his reflection in the mirror, which was paler and more bleary-eyed than he remembered. "I'm starting to think that Shelby might have had a point about you, the other day," he muttered at it darkly.

His reflection stared right back. Kurt sighed.

Typical.

"There you are."

Kurt, who hadn't heard the door open in his fatigued stupor, whipped around in his chair. Shelby was watching him with one hand on the doorframe and a small smile on her face, as if she'd been summoned by him mentioning her name.

If she'd heard him, though, she didn't say anything. "I didn't see you leave with the others," she explained, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind her. "I wanted to congratulate you—you were incredible today, Kurt. I've never been more impressed with you than I was today, and I'd be extremely shocked if we don't win tomorrow, with the way that you sang."

Kurt was stunned by the compliment. "Th-thank you," he managed, well aware that his eyes were far wider than was considered normal or at all attractive.

"Of course," Shelby replied evenly, sitting down in one of the empty chairs across from him.

She studied him for a minute, contemplating, and Kurt squirmed slightly under the scrutiny, not sure what the reasoning behind it was. Before he could develop any theories, though, Shelby smiled at him sadly.

"I'm leaving Vocal Adrenaline next year," she said quietly, continuing to watch him with steady eyes.

Kurt sat up so quickly that he nearly tumbled out of his chair. "What?" he asked stupidly, certain that he'd misheard her.

Shelby's expression turned indulgent. "You're the first one I've told," she admitted, glancing at the door before turning back to him. "Everyone else will find out at our next rehearsal on Wednesday—I'm trusting that you can keep it a secret for that long."

Kurt shook his head absently, a million questions running through his brain.

"Why are you telling me now?" he asked finally, not sure what else to say.

Shelby blinked at him. "After today, I'm surprised that you have to ask," she replied. "When my replacement arrives in September, you'll be taking over as Vocal Adrenaline's lead singer."

Kurt's heart stopped.

"You want me to take Jesse's place next year," he clarified, looking inquisitively at Shelby. "For me to be the lead soloist."

Shelby nodded. "You've proved that you can handle it," she told him. "What's more, you've earned it, Kurt."

Kurt nodded back, slowly. He let the words wash over him, waiting for the meaning to sink in.

Nothing happened.

The excitement, pride, gratitude that he'd expected to feel, hearing Shelby acknowledge his hard work and talent and reward it accordingly—none of it was there. He felt…

Nothing. Numb. Just as strangely empty as he'd felt when he'd opened his acceptance letter, one week earlier.

Kurt blinked. _What the _hell_ is wrong with me?_

A warm hand slid over his own. "Kurt?" Shelby asked, her voice more gentle than he could ever remember hearing it. "Are you all right? Talk to me."

Kurt exhaled shakily.

"Being the lead soloist, winning Nationals," he said slowly, staring at their hands. "Getting into The Academy. All of it's happening at the same time. Everything that I wanted, for so long."

Kurt looked up. Shelby was nodding, waiting for him to continue.

He took another deep breath. "But I don't feel anything," he confessed, almost pleadingly. "Why don't I feel anything?"

Shelby looked at him silently for a long, long time.

"There's a baby girl, back in Ohio," she said, finally. "Her name is Beth. She's perfect, Kurt, an innocent little angel that deserves to be the center of someone's world. And she's spending over three whole days and nights with a nanny, because her mom is on the other side of the country with three dozen teenagers, chasing after awards and titles that aren't going to mean anything to any of them in twenty years."

Kurt stared at her, too shocked to interrupt.

Shelby met his eyes. "Sometimes, the things that you think you want the most change, without you even realizing it," she said seriously. "You have so much talent, Kurt, and I think that you could be something amazing. But you're the one who has to live with your choices, your decisions. No one else."

Before Kurt could even begin to process what she had said, Shelby was pulling her hand back and straightening up in her seat.

"I know that this isn't the best time," she admitted, a hint of apology in her voice. "But there's someone outside who's been waiting to speak with you, and I've kept her waiting long enough. Can I send her in?"

The last thing that Kurt felt capable of was more conversation, but he nodded anyway, too overwhelmed to disagree. Shelby nodded back, taking his hand one more time and squeezing it briefly before standing up and slipping out the door.

A minute later, Kurt heard a faint _clicking _sound as a woman in stilletos crossed the threshold into the dressing room. "Hello, Kurt," a vaguely familiar voice greeted him.

And even though he had only heard it once before, Kurt recognized her immediately, and knew even as he stood up and turned around who he would see.

Sarita Jackson, the lead instructor at The Academy, had just entered the room.


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30/33. I can count now.

I have spent so many hours typing this (multitasking is hard when there's a multi-hour video countdown on VH1, amirite?) that I am pretty much out of words. You're all handsome and good, and I'm in possession of nothing but a laptop and a dream.

* * *

><p>Sarita Jackson, despite having a larger than life reputation, was a relatively diminutive woman; barely taller than Dakota Stanley even in her sharp black heels. Slim and graceful, with olive skin and jet black hair that fell to her shoulders, she looked nowhere near her true age, which Kurt knew from his in-depth online stalking was not quite fifty-three. A pair of rings glittering on her left hand automatically drew Kurt's attention at first, but it didn't remain there—like Shelby's, Sarita's speaking voice was a rich alto that easily commanded respect, though Sarita had the slight hint of a foreign accent that suggested that her English was learned abroad, possibly as a second language.<p>

Still, she spoke with eloquence. "It's good to see you again, Mr. Hummel," she said kindly, watching him with dark eyes that reminded him eerily of Blaine's. "I trust, from your somewhat terrified expression, that you remember who I am?"

Kurt hadn't realized that his face was giving him away, and he quickly made an effort to compose himself. "I'm sorry," he apologized courteously, breathlessly, nodding in what he hoped would come across as a deferential manner. "I wasn't expecting—it's nice to see you again, too, Mrs. Jackson."

Sarita smiled indulgently. "Just Sarita, please," she requested, "I only stand on formality with directors that are particularly difficult to work with. And your surprise is understandable; I don't make it to the Nationals competition every year. But my schedule was fairly permissive this weekend, and with four of my twelve potential summer students performing, not to mention the first two girls on the waiting list, I thought I'd make the effort."

Kurt nodded, intrigued in spite of himself—somehow, even while preparing for his audition, he hadn't given much thought to the other eleven people who would be getting their acceptance letters along with him.

He wondered, if he sat through every performance out in the audience, if he'd be able to pick them out.

Sarita was watching him again. "I would have passed along my congratulations through Shelby, in any case," she acknowledged, sitting regally in one of the dressing room chairs and gesturing distractedly for Kurt to do the same. "When I ran into her earlier, though, she mentioned that you were having some difficulties at home that might prevent you from studying with me this summer."

She frowned slightly. "Although she was maddeningly unspecific about what those difficulties might be," she admitted petulantly.

If the situation was any less serious, Kurt might have cracked a smile at the idea of Shelby Corcoran and Sarita Jackson, two of the most influential names in performing arts education, trying to get the better of each other in a conversation about _him. _

But it wasn't, and Sarita was still talking.

"If you're having financial troubles, I'm sorry to say that our scholarships are mostly given out by now," Sarita was saying, "but if you were to call the office on Monday, there might be some aid money left. And even if there isn't, one of our secretaries can give you a list of organizations to solicit that many of our students have found very helpful in the past."

She paused. "And…I understand that you're from the Midwest, and that you live with your father," she said delicately, not quite meeting Kurt's eye. "If you're experiencing a lack of support at home, or you're worried that there might be…repercussions, for choosing to go..."

Kurt caught on quickly. "No, n—no, it's nothing like that at all," he said spluttered, eyes widening. "My dad is amazing. He'd never do anything to—he's an incredible father, and I'm so lucky to have him."

Sarita clasped her hands in her lap. "Of course," she said gently. "I'd certainly never accuse him of anything, Kurt. I'm just aware by now that not every one of my students is quite that fortunate. I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't at least ask."

Kurt swallowed painfully, nodding. "No, I know," he agreed breathlessly, looking down at his feet. "It's just that—my dad had a heart attack recently, a bad one. He doesn't like to admit how bad it was, but he'd have died if he hadn't gotten to the hospital as quickly as he did. And he _is_ getting better, but it's a process—he needs daily care, still, and he's having some trouble adjusting to his new diet and medications and not overdoing it. It's just the two of us, and I've been taking care of him, but we can't afford anything long term, especially on top of him working part time and the tuition payments for The Academy."

He glanced up at Sarita. She was looking at him with sympathetic eyes, but she didn't interrupt, gesturing silently instead for him to continue.

He did. "I love performing," he admitted, willing his voice not to tremble or crack. "I know how hard I'd have to work and how much rejection I'd face, and that the odds of succeeding in New York or LA are _terrifyingly_ slim." He swallowed again. "But I still can't imagine wanting to do anything else," he continued. "It's who I am."

He paused, not sure how to continue.

"But with your father's situation…" Sarita prompted, seeming to understand what he was trying to say even though he was doing a poor job of communicating it.

Kurt nodded wearily. "I can't see any other way," he admitted. "I _want _to come work with you this summer, so badly…but not at the expense of my family. It can't be more important than the people I love. Maybe that—I know it'll make things harder, in some ways," he explained, feeling as though he was making a confession. "But I'll have to live with it."

It was the truth, even if it wasn't the whole story. But how could he explain to Sarita how he was afraid of turning into Jesse, who destroyed relationships like they didn't matter; or how _bothered _he was by the way that Jesse and Shelby had treated Rachel, who for all her self-involvement was a nice girl who had been kind to Blaine and didn't deserve any of the pain they'd put her through; or how, so often, his single-mindedness and ambition had led him to steamroll right over Blaine's feelings, only realizing the harm he'd caused when the damage had already been done?

Maybe she'd understand him, if he tried to explain it. But if she didn't, and tried to talk him out of his decision…

If he wasn't strong enough to say no, Kurt didn't want to know it.

While Kurt had been ruminating, Sarita had raised an eyebrow. "You know, Mr. Hummel, that if you turn down your spot, you'd be the first person in seventeen years to do so?" she mentioned casually. "Nineteen, if you only count the musical theatre program."

Kurt gripped the edge of his chair, his reflection in the mirror next to him paling dramatically. "I-I didn't know that, no," he managed to stammer. "Not exactly the legacy I was hoping for."

Sarita didn't react. "Is there any chance that you'd reconsider, in light of that?" she pressed, leaning forward slightly in her chair, making her hair spill over her shoulders.

Kurt closed his eyes briefly. The answer was still no; he knew that. Still, _knowing _that it was the right thing to do didn't make actually _doing _it any easier. "No," he breathed, "there isn't. I'm sorry."

There was an awful silence.

Kurt opened his eyes.

Sarita was studying him, an expression on her face that was almost…satisfied; curiously so.

"I see a remarkable amount of talent every year, Mr. Hummel," she told Kurt evenly, her gaze unwavering. "Students, actors looking for their first break, established performers. Some of them have gone on, or will go on, to incredibly successful industry careers. I imagine, though, that your grandchildren will only know two or three of them by name."

She blinked at Kurt, who was watching her quietly, fiercely attentive.

"Talent, beauty, drive, opportunity," she rattled off, "they help, certainly, but I'm personally inclined to believe that character is what separates those whose marks on the world are brilliant, but ephemeral, from the few who achieve a…timeless sort of grace.

"It's possible that I'm wrong," she added. "It's been known to happen a few times each decade. Still, it's an interesting thought. And it's worth noting that you, Mr. Hummel, have a great deal of character."

Kurt straightened up in his seat, eyes wide in surprise.

Sarita smiled gently at him as she stood. "You'll be hearing from me again, Mr. Hummel; I'm sure of that. Enjoy the rest of your trip."

She was out the door before Kurt could say anything.

* * *

><p>At 6:13 on Sunday evening, Vocal Adrenaline was pronounced the winner of the 2010 National Show Choir Competition.<p>

The sheer amount of sound in the room was explosive, clapping and shouting and whistling and shrieking, and Kurt felt his cheeks stretch with the widest smile he'd worn in weeks as he was hugged and kissed and manhandled up to the front of the group to have his turn at holding the trophy, a glittering, golden, ostentatiously oversized piece of hardware that was almost as tall as he was. It took most of his strength, but he managed to lift it a few inches off of the ground before passing it off to someone presumably stronger, laughter and cheering and applause ringing in his ears.

The bus was already loaded with bags and waiting outside the convention center to pick them up when the Awards Ceremony finally ended, ready to take the team out to dinner before bringing them back to LAX for their redeye flight back to Ohio. A few bottles of champagne were unearthed and passed around, and Kurt drank deeply when his turn came, the bubbles fizzing pleasantly all the way down his throat.

Lightly buzzed by the time they reached the Italian restaurant that had won by two votes—Shelby might turn a blind eye to a little celebrating, but she definitely wouldn't have tolerated anyone getting drunk on the _shuttle bus_, of all places—family-style platters of food were brought out, and the team sat down to the largest meal that most of them had eaten in months. Kurt, tired and exhilarated and, somehow, both stressed out and relieved at the same time, managed to put away an entire plateful of eggplant parmesan.

He sent a picture of his scraped dish to Burt with the simple, explanatory message _We won! :)_, receiving a garbled string of words in return (indicating that his dad was both happy for him and had accidently turned the autocorrect feature on his phone back on).

He saved the message anyway.

The trip to the airport and through security was largely uneventful, although Shelby had a difficult time convincing the baggage handlers to take their trophy, causing a slight delay. She managed it in the end, however, and Kurt barely had time to buy a new magazine and swallow a dose of sleeping pills at the water fountain—tired as he was, he was no stranger to overnight flights, and airplane seats were almost _deliberately_ uncomfortable—before they were being herded onto the plane.

He fell asleep halfway through the flight attendant's safety instructions, and didn't wake back up until the plane touched down in Ohio the next morning.

* * *

><p>Kurt, like the rest of Vocal Adrenaline, had been given permission from Carmel's principal to skip school on Monday and recover from the trip. He took advantage of the free pass, retreating to his basement almost as soon as he got home and sleeping until nearly dinnertime, when his dad excitedly grilled him about his trip—and, more importantly, his Nationals solo and promotion to lead singer. Kurt tiredly obliged him, skipping details such as Blaine's phone call and Sarita's visit, and swapping sparkling cider in as the team's celebratory beverage of choice. It was nice just to sit and talk with his dad after such an exciting—and harrowing—weekend, and Kurt found himself smiling more and more as Burt laughed at each anecdote and specifically asked about the friends of Kurt's that he knew ("And what about that girl whose dad is in the CIA or Black Ops, or whatever it was; did she have a Secret Service team following her around, or is that just for politicians' kids?").<p>

It was…easy. Comfortable.

Until, very suddenly, it wasn't.

"Look, I know you're probably not up to making any big decisions tonight," Burt transitioned awkwardly after a moment of peaceful silence, halfway through the meal. "But I think we should probably talk about your summer program, and what you're gonna do about it."

Slowly, Kurt put his fork down. "Can it wait until tomorrow?" he stalled quietly, staring down at his grilled chicken salad rather than look at Burt. "I'm still really tired, Dad."

He heard Burt's water glass clink as he set it down on the table. "We don't have to discuss everything tonight, no," Burt acquiesced, "but maybe you can tell me what you're thinking now, just so I know where your head's at when we talk tomorrow."

Kurt exhaled quietly. He'd known that he was going to have to tell Burt about his conversation with Sarita eventually, but he knew his dad wasn't going to like it, and he'd been hoping for another night's sleep before the storm, at least.

_Shit._

He squirmed a little in his seat. "I thought about it, while I was away," he admitted softly, still looking at the table instead of meeting his dad's eyes. "If there was any way that I could go without compromising your health, or feeling like…"

He paused, not wanting to get into the rest of his reasoning, or even _begin_ to explain the whole Shelby/Rachel/Jesse situation. "But there's not," he said instead. "I'm not going this summer, Dad."

There was a heavy silence.

Kurt wasn't sure how, exactly, he'd expected Burt to react to his announcement—disbelief, maybe, or potentially with some yelling. Instead, when he finally looked up, Kurt found his dad staring at him like he wasn't quite sure what to say to him.

"So that's it, then?" he wanted to know, dropping his fork onto the table with a clatter that made Kurt wince involuntarily. "You've made up your mind, and we're not even going to talk about this?"

Kurt bit his lip. "We can still talk about it," he promised quietly, his fingers twisting nervously into the napkin in his lap, "but I've already decided, yes."

His dad let out a frustrated sigh. "You wanted this for _months,_" he reminded Kurt, pushing his plate to the side and leaning forward, his elbows on the table. "You kept saying what a great opportunity this was for you, and it _is_. And now you're just gonna throw it away?"

Kurt blinked. "There will be other opportunities, Dad," he countered. "And I can apply again, and to other programs, next year. Maybe it won't even be as terrifying, since I've already done it once, and now that I'm going to be the lead in Vocal Adrenaline, I'll be even better prepared."

Burt closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he was trying to stave off the headache that Kurt was clearly giving him. "This is your _life_ we're talking about, Kurt," he said seriously, his left hand clenching and unclenching over and over again on the table. "You can't just put it on hold like this."

Kurt ignored the knotted feeling in his stomach and leaned forward, unconsciously mirroring Burt's posture. "Exactly," he stressed, "it's _my _life, Dad. I have to be the one to make this decision, not anyone else. You know that."

Burt scoffed. "And what—I'm supposed to sit back and let you make what I think is the wrong decision?" he asked, voice louder than before. "You're still a kid, Buddy; you should be spending your summer being a kid, not missing out on doing what you love because you think you have to take care of me."

Kurt's lip was starting to sting from chewing on it, a slight coppery taste pooling on the edge of his tongue. "I'm not a kid anymore," he disagreed flatly. "Not the way that you think I am. I have a job, I take care of the house; I filed our _taxes_ this year when you were in the hospital."

Burt shook his head violently before he could continue. "You're still my son," he argued, "and it's my job to be the parent and take care of you, not the other way around." He looked straight at Kurt, more intensely that he'd done in months. "Tell me you're not doing this because of me," he challenged solemnly.

Kurt inhaled sharply.

"I'll always be your son," he answered shortly, a sudden tightness in his chest and stomach making it hard for him to breathe. "But I'm not a little boy anymore, Dad. I'm doing this for me."

The knotted sensation in his abdomen worsened, and before Burt could reply, Kurt balled up his napkin and dropped it onto the table next to his plate. "I don't—excuse me," he managed to choke out, before rushing out of the room and down the hall.

Kurt wasn't sure whether it was the inordinate amount of stress he'd been under, worsened by the argument with his dad; his body's reaction to having eaten a large, heavy meal and then flying across the country and sleeping for nearly fourteen hours; or his immune system finally crashing, the way it had in January—perhaps some combination of the three. But he barely made it to the bathroom before he was on his knees in front of the toilet, emptying the contents of his stomach with a tremendous slosh.

* * *

><p>The next half an hour was a blur. His dad had found him in the dark room, slumped against the white, floral wallpaper with tears rolling absently down his sweaty cheeks, too nauseated to try to move on his own. He'd helped Kurt shakily get to his feet and had guided him over to the sink, leaving momentarily while Kurt washed his face and hands, before returning from the kitchen with a glass of saltwater for him to rinse his mouth out with.<p>

Once Kurt was settled on the couch a few minutes later ("Lay down on your left side, Buddy; that First Aid book you gave me last month says that's better"), Burt disappeared again, and Kurt was vaguely aware of his low, murmuring voice moving around the kitchen as he spoke to someone over the phone.

When he came back into the room a little while later, he had a mug of cinnamon-ginger tea for Kurt that he set down carefully on the coffee table, even remembering to use a coaster when Kurt blearily pointed at the stack a few feet away. Gesturing for Kurt to scoot over, he sat down on the end of the couch and grabbed a pillow for his lap, then gently guided Kurt until his head was resting on his pillow-covered thigh.

Kurt closed his eyes again, exhausted, as Burt's fingers carded soothingly through his hair.

And maybe it was simply his imagination desperately searching for a connection but, just for a second, Kurt thought that he could remember his mother stroking his hair in the same way when he was little, when they would cuddle on the couch in their pajamas on weekends or holidays or days that Kurt, sick and unhappy, had stayed home from school.

They were quiet for a long, long time.

After an indeterminate amount of peaceful silence, Kurt felt his dad's fingers slow in his hair. "Buddy," Burt wanted to know, "what's going on with you lately?"

It was a simple question, but it didn't have a simple answer, and Kurt temporarily avoided it. "Tell me about Mom," he requested instead, not moving from his curled up position on the couch.

The hand in his hair stopped moving completely, resting on the nape of Kurt's neck.

"Your mom," his dad repeated softly, his voice taking on the faraway quality it often did whenever he talked about his late wife. "God, Kurt, she was beautiful. Not just on the outside, either, even though she really was; but everything about her was beautiful. She was nice to everyone, even when they didn't deserve it, and she just had this…_way _about her, that made you want to listen to every word that she said. Even if she was lying and you both knew it." He laughed suddenly. "I don't think I ever won an argument with her the entire time that we were married," he told Kurt, "not once."

Kurt nodded, listening hungrily.

His dad looked down at him. "She loved your laugh," he said, stroking Kurt's hair again. "Especially when you were a baby, and you'd laugh and laugh for no reason, at least not one that we could figure out." He nudged Kurt's cheek with his calloused hand. "She'd be so proud of you, Kiddo," he promised, meeting Kurt's eyes. "Probably knock you upside the head over this performance camp business, but she'd still be proud of the way you turned out."

And it was that, the image in his head of his mother holding him as a baby, never knowing that she wouldn't have the chance to see him grow up, that broke the dam.

Taking a deep, rattling breath, Kurt's eyes filled with tears again. "No, she wouldn't be," he admitted quietly, more ashamed of himself than he could ever remember feeling before. "Dad, I have something that I need to tell you."

* * *

><p>Over the next hour, Kurt told his dad the whole story from start to finish—about Jesse, about Rachel and Shelby, and especially about Blaine. What he had and hadn't done, the mistakes he'd made and the lengths he'd gone to to try and hold everything together. Burt let him speak without interrupting, only prodding Kurt with questions when his voice faltered.<p>

By the time Kurt had finished explaining the details he'd left out in his earlier summary of his trip to Nationals—Blaine's phone call and Sarita's appearance in the dressing room—he was sitting up on the couch, his mostly empty mug of tea in his hands as he leaned into Burt's shoulder, waiting.

He didn't have to wait long—after a minute of silence, probably to make sure that Kurt was actually done, Burt let out a heavy sigh. "Well, I'm not going to sugarcoat it," he said dryly, curling an arm around Kurt's thin shoulders and giving them a light squeeze. "Kid, you screwed up."

Kurt groaned in agreement, closing his eyes and turning his face into Burt's sleeve.

His dad ran his hand soothingly up and down Kurt's arm. "Don't beat yourself up yet," he advised. "I don't know if this is good news or bad news, but even though you definitely stepped in it a few times, so did Blaine. And I think you know that."

Kurt nodded. Burt nodded back.

"Avoiding each other like you have been clearly isn't doing you any favors," he pointed out. "You've got a couple of days off from rehearsal this week; go out to his school and talk to him in person. If you ask me, the two of you are long overdue."

Kurt looked up hopefully—the idea of seeing Blaine again, of finally beginning to settle everything between them, was almost too much to hope for.

_But._ "But he said—" Kurt started to say.

"I know what he said," his dad interrupted with a dismissive wave. "And I wish I'd known it over a month ago, when you first started moping. But he called you, didn't he? Said that he wanted to see you, too?"

Kurt remembered the conversation with almost eidetic clarity. "Yeah," he confirmed, smiling a little in spite of himself.

Burt nudged his shoulder gently. "Yeah," he agreed. "I don't know—just, take it slow, and be honest with him, okay?"

"Okay," Kurt replied, feeling lighter than he had all day. "Should I call first, do you think?"

Burt made a show of rolling his eyes. "Oh, _now _he wants my advice," he complained, smiling anyway. "Yes, call first, this isn't an ambush. Go call him, and go take a shower, Kiddo; you still smell like hairspray."

Kurt dodged a light swat, climbing off the couch and picking up his mug of tea to take back to the kitchen. "I will," he promised, mind already on his cell phone on his bed downstairs. "Thanks, Dad. I love you."

Burt grunted. "Love you too, you little wingnut," he shot back, stretching out on the couch and filling the space that Kurt had left behind. "Remember that next time, _before_ you start leading another double life, all right?"

* * *

><p>That night, after finishing his homework and packing his book bag and getting ready for bed and answering his email and text messages and taking the commanded shower (even if his dad was clearly hallucinating, because there wasn't a trace of hairspray left in his hair even before shampooing), Kurt ran out of excuses to avoid picking up the phone and calling Blaine. The screen glowing under his fingertips, he shakily typed out a message, rechecking the spelling three times before tapping the send button:<p>

_Can I come see you tomorrow after school?_

Ten minutes later, the phone lit up in his hand:

_Call me when you get here and I'll come find you; my room is a little hard to find if you don't know where you're going._

While Kurt was debating what, if anything, to text back, another message came through:

_Can't wait to see you, Kurt. Really._

For the first time in a long time, Kurt fell asleep smiling.

* * *

><p>Although two paper cups from the Lima Bean were wedged into the cup holders of Kurt's Navigator as he drove out to Westerville after school the next day, Kurt didn't dare touch them—his hands were already jittery enough even without the extra caffeine, and Kurt's brain on stimulants was a scary place, at times. As it was, only sheer willpower was allowing him to devote his whole attention to the road, rather than dwell on what might happen when he saw Blaine again.<p>

The drive was shorter than Kurt remembered, only seventy minutes—Blaine's house was on the opposite side of Lima, though, and Kurt could understand why he'd choose to stay in the dorms during the week instead of traveling three hours a day, every day—and before he knew it, Kurt was driving down the path that cut through the ornate, iron gate and past the lush grounds toward the visitors parking lot.

As he found an empty space near the main entrance, Kurt drank in the gorgeous campus with an appreciative eye. His dad, he knew, had briefly considered sending him to Dalton instead of Carmel when he was a freshman, impressed by the anti-bullying policies. But with Kurt too young at the time to get his license—he'd been driving under Burt's supervision since he was eleven years old (and finally tall enough to reach the pedals) but the state BMV didn't care—and Burt unable to take enough time off from work each day to drive him, the only option left would have been to have Kurt board at the school, which they couldn't afford and wouldn't have allowed even if they could.

It was still strange to think, though, as Kurt quickly texted Blaine and continued to admire the architecture and uniformed students strolling along the paths, that if circumstances had been different, Dalton might have been _his _school.

"Kurt!"

Kurt's head snapped up at the sound of the familiar voice calling his name, and smiled: Blaine, perfectly adorable in his boxy, slightly-too-large-for-him blazer, had come out a side entrance that he'd overlooked, and was walking in his direction, waving.

Waving back, Kurt scooped up the book bag that he'd deposited carelessly at his feet and hurried across the parking lot to meet him, all of his half-formed thoughts and planned conversations flying out of his head now that he was actually face to face with Blaine again.

And Blaine looked good. Nervous, maybe, but good.

"Hey," Kurt called back stupidly, once they were close enough to talk without having to shout. "Nice tie."

Blaine blushed slightly, looking down at the striped uniform tie and twisting a hand into his curls self-consciously. "Thanks," he responded shyly, coming to a stop a few feet in front of Kurt. Biting his lip and glancing up at Kurt awkwardly, he started to lift his other arm, then paused, clearly debating whether or not to hug him.

Kurt had no such qualms, and closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Blaine's shoulders, breathing in his scent as Blaine let out a shuddery, relieved sigh and buried his face in Kurt's neck.

"_I'm so glad you're here," _Kurt half-heard, half-felt him whisper after a minute, and he tightened his grip, letting his forehead rest on Blaine's temple.

When Blaine finally pulled away several minutes later, his eyes were shiny and damp. "I…um," he stammered, smiling. "Do you, I mean—do you want to come see my room? I got us some coffee from the student lounge, and it's probably still warm."

Kurt clapped a hand over his mouth. "I completely forgot," he explained, when Blaine looked at him worriedly, "I got us coffee, too, and it's still in the car."

Blaine's eyes lit up. "Is it from the Lima Bean?" he wanted to know, his smile widening when Kurt confirmed that it was. Humming contentedly, he threaded an arm through Kurt's. "Back to the car then, please," he requested, starting back across the parking lot. "The coffee here isn't _bad, _but…"

Grinning madly, Kurt let Blaine pull him back to his car, expounding upon the virtues of the Lima Bean and proper caffeination the whole time.

* * *

><p>Once the coffee was fetched (Blaine drank half of his in several large gulps before Kurt could even close and relock the car door), Blaine led Kurt through Dalton Academy's main entrance and down several stately, carpeted hallways, out an exit and across a meticulously pruned courtyard, and into a second, only slightly smaller building with several oak doors visible in each direction.<p>

"You were right about the likelihood of me getting lost," Kurt confirmed as he followed Blaine up a flight of stairs, making Blaine smile as he fished a slim key ring out of his pocket.

"It seems impossible, but you really do get used to it," he promised Kurt, stopping in front of the fifth door from the staircase and fitting his key into the lock. Pausing, he glanced at Kurt apologetically. "It's messy," he warned. "I'm in the middle of packing, and…yeah. Don't judge me too harshly."

Kurt took a sip of his mocha. "I'll take your explanation under advisement," he agreed, and Blaine rolled his eyes before pushing the door open.

Kurt managed to keep his jaw from dropping, but it was a close call: Blaine's room was every bit as disheveled as he had said. Half-full boxes of books, toiletries, and other possessions were strewn randomly around the carpet, open and exposing their contents. The walls had been stripped of décor, only the pieces of double-sided tape left behind indicating that anything had been hanging at all. The bookshelf, almost completely devoid of books, was holding both Blaine's shoe collection and an assortment of spiral notebooks, and it appeared as if Blaine's entire tiny wardrobe was heaped on top of his bed, the open closet door revealing a few sets of Blaine's Dalton uniform and six or seven abandoned hangers.

Seeing that Blaine really was a little embarrassed about the state of his dorm room—_and well he should be, _Kurt thought, _Martha Stewart couldn't help this room with a backhoe and an army—_Kurt refrained from mentioning anything. "Why are you packing?" he asked instead, delicately picking his way over to Blaine's (mercifully empty) desk chair and sitting down. "Your school year can't be over yet, can it?"

Blaine nodded, an errant strand of hair falling into his eyes. "Our last day is on Thursday, actually," he told Kurt, shoving a pile of clothes to the side and sinking down on the bed across from him. "My mom's taking a few hours off from work on Friday morning to come move me out of the dorms."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "That's really fast," he commented, surprised. "Classes don't end at Carmel until…" He wrinkled his forehead, thinking. "The Wednesday after next week," he concluded; "you're done almost two weeks before we are."

Blaine shrugged his shoulders, taking a final sip of the coffee that Kurt had brought him before dropping the empty cup into the trash. "I know, it was a nice surprise," he agreed. "And after finals last week, I'm ready for summer."

Kurt nodded. "Are you…" he started carefully, before shrugging off his hesitation and pressing ahead. "Are you staying here for the summer, or are you staying with your Grandma?"

Blaine smiled sadly at him. "Grandma," he answered, his fingers tugging absently at the hem of his blazer. "I'm leaving on Saturday. This summer will be my longest visit since I was a kid, so she's really excited that I'm coming."

Kurt smiled tightly. "That's nice for her," he said as neutrally as he could manage, determinedly pushing aside the wave of despair that had hit him at Blaine's revelation; that he was finally starting to get Blaine back, only to lose him again.

But if wasn't going to see Blaine again for several weeks, he wasn't going to waste what little time they had together being upset. There would be plenty of time for that later.

Blaine seemed to be thinking along the same lines as he flashed Kurt a cheerful, if not quite genuine, smile. "My parents and I are going to Niagara Falls for the weekend, though," he told Kurt, squirming slightly on his bed. "Like a mini-vacation for just the three of us, before they drive me to Toronto on Monday night."

Kurt perked up, intrigued by both the destination and by Blaine's parents making a visible effort to spend some quality time with their son. Wisely, he only commented on one. "I've never been to Niagara Falls," he mentioned, swiveling his chair rhythmically back and forth. "Do you spend a lot of time there?"

Blaine shook his head. "I think the last time I was there was about three years ago," he admitted, "but the Falls are really pretty, and everything around it is really green and floral, because of all the mist."

He snorted, and shot Kurt a real smile. "You'd hate everything more than a block away from the waterfalls, though," he told Kurt, eyes bright. "It's a giant tourist trap—the streets are sticky and gross, and everything's neon or pastel and smells like fudge."

Kurt shuddered. "That's ghastly," he stated flatly, mildly horrified. "Better you than me."

Blaine's smile grew. "But there's a mini golf course that's dinosaur themed, Kurt," he mocked Kurt, grinning happily. "They have giant statues and everything, and the T-Rex is at least twenty feet tall."

Kurt grimaced. "That," he said solemnly, gazing at Blaine, "sounds _exactly _like something you'd love, and that is why, of the two of us, I'm the arbiter of taste."

Blaine's smile turned gentle. "I know," he agreed easily.

They were both silent for a minute, looking at each other.

Finally, Kurt took a deep breath. "Do you think," he asked delicately, "that it's weird how much I already miss you, even though we're both right here?"

Blaine nodded seriously. "Totally," he replied, keeping his expression blank. "You're probably the weirdest person that I know, Kurt."

Scowling, Kurt tossed his empty Lima Bean cup at Blaine, who dissolved into laughter as it hit him on the shoulder. Rolling his eyes, Kurt let out a faux-affronted huff. "Come on, you jerk," he demanded, climbing to his feet and holding out his hand in order to pull Blaine up off of the bed. "You're never going to get everything in this room packed by Friday morning without my expert guidance. Get up and I'll help you."

Laughter fading, Blaine tossed Kurt's cup into the trash with his own and took Kurt's hand. "What would I do without you?" he asked simply, smiling warmly as Kurt pulled him to his feet.

Kurt fluttered his eyelashes. "Drown in a miasma of your own clutter, apparently," he predicted dryly, patting Blaine's cheek patronizingly before turning toward the piles of clothing on the bed. "I'll fold, if you can dig up a couple more boxes."

* * *

><p>They packed.<p>

Kurt had no idea how on earth Blaine had managed to accumulate so much _stuff _in less than two months—in one room, even—but somehow he had done it, and it showed. For two hours, Kurt folded clothes, organized boxes, reorganized the boxes that Blaine had already packed whenever Blaine wasn't looking, secured shampoos and soaps and gels in plastic bags (one disastrous trip to Miami had had taught him that much), and listened to Blaine as he talked and talked and talked; talking as if he'd been saving all of his words since the last time they'd seen each other.

He was taking fencing a couple of days a week after school, he told Kurt—which explained the white, asylum-like jacket that Kurt had found in a drawer—and after being scouted by the cross-country coach when she saw him coming back from a run the week before, he was seriously considering joining the team ("maybe it'll be more fun this time, since I don't have to pretend to be straight by not reacting to the gay slurs in the locker room at this school"). More interesting to Kurt, he'd also joined the Warblers, and genuinely seemed to be enjoying it.

He tentatively asked Kurt about a few of the people that he'd gotten along best with at Carmel, and Kurt managed to fill him in to the best of his knowledge. It went unspoken but agreed upon, though, that Vocal Adrenaline, Blaine leaving Carmel, and anything involving Kurt's dad were all off-limit topics for a little while longer, at least.

Also unspoken was how comfortable Kurt felt, just talking and hanging out with Blaine again, and how the more Blaine joked and laughed and relaxed, the more unfairly beautiful he became, to the point where Kurt was grateful that his hands were busy folding and lifting and organizing so that he wouldn't be tempted to grab Blaine and kiss him fiercely, potentially ruining everything.

It also didn't help that, after half an hour of moving boxes around, Blaine had changed out of his blazer and button-down and into a thin white t-shirt that clung to his chest and showed off his newly developed arm muscles, sleek and strong from fencing practice.

By the time that Kurt (and Blaine under Kurt's direct supervision) had made a sizeable dent in Blaine's packing, it was nearly dinnertime. Taking a sip of the now lukewarm Dalton coffee, Kurt glanced at Blaine's clock radio and grimaced. "I should—I need to get going," he told Blaine reluctantly, already dreading the long, Blaine-less drive home.

Blaine looked equally dismayed. "I wish you didn't have to," he admitted, glancing down at his bare feet. "It—I wish you could just stay. I miss not seeing you."

He looked plaintively at Kurt. "I'm going to miss not seeing you," he added. "When I'm gone."

Kurt felt his eyes start to itch. Before he could reply, though, Blaine had turned away and was digging through the notebooks stacked on top of his bookshelf, possibly the one pile in the entire room that had gone untouched in the packing frenzy. When he turned back around, there was a blue notebook in his hands that he held out to Kurt.

"I've been saving this for you," Blaine told him, looking suddenly shy. "Don't read it until later, though, okay?"

Which meant, of course, that Kurt immediately felt the urge to snatch the notebook away and read every word as fast as he could.

He managed to control himself. "Okay," he echoed instead. "Can I ask what's in it?"

Blaine shook his head. "Not yet," he said, tone regretful. "Just…read it, and then ask me about it, if you want to."

Curiosity piqued, Kurt nodded in agreement. Rather than tuck the notebook into his bag on Blaine's desk, however, Kurt gently set it down with the rest of his things and turned back to face Blaine. "I'm really glad you called me this weekend," he said quietly, memorizing Blaine's face with his eyes while he still had the chance.

Blaine's eyes grew too bright. "I'm sorry that it took me so long," he confessed, his voice slightly gravelly. "Kurt, I…"

He trailed off, and Kurt took a deep breath. "I want to be able to talk about that," he admitted, reaching out and taking Blaine's hand. "I really want us to keep talking this summer, about everything. We—I want to know where I stand with you, and how we fit into each other's lives. Because I'm not ready to let you go."

Blaine gripped Kurt's hand like a lifeline. "No," he agreed, blinking rapidly and staring down at their intertwined fingers, "I'm not either. You're right, about all of it."

Kurt swallowed. Blaine's lips were even darker and fuller than he had remembered.

_And if I leave now, _Kurt realized, _I might never get another chance._

"Can I kiss you?" he breathed softly, trembling a little as Blaine looked up at him with his large, beautiful brown eyes. "Just in case we decide—I just want to be able to remember it. Please."

Blaine didn't answer.

Instead, slowly, he let go of Kurt's hand and stepped closer, the warmth of his body seeping into Kurt's and his hand brushing against Kurt's arm as he lifted it to stroke his cheek, cradling Kurt's jaw as he leaned in and kissed him for the first time in two months.

Kurt had dreamed about kissing Blaine countless times, almost from the first day that they had met. There was no contest—his imagination, gifted as it was, paled in comparison to the reality of Blaine's mouth on his, soft and smooth; the slight sting of Blaine biting gently at Kurt's bottom lip, breath warm on his skin. Blaine gasped softly as Kurt's hands drifted over his back, pulling him in closer and holding him reverently in his arms, both elated and terrified by the warmth and closeness and trust and _responsibility_ that loving Blaine—loving anyone, really, but especially Blaine—came with. And with a muffled moan, Blaine responded, pressing himself into Kurt's touch and twisting his hands into Kurt's shirt as he tilted his head, opening his mouth slightly and taking control of Kurt's body.

It was the _perfect _kiss. And the possibility that it might be the last one that they ever shared was so gutwrenching that Kurt pushed the thought aside; something to consider when his head wasn't swimming and his skin wasn't buzzing, his arms and head and blood and heart filled with Blaine and nothing else.

* * *

><p>When Kurt finally closed the door to Blaine's room several minutes later—promises to call each other soon, not to mention a few tears, exchanged—he let out a heavy sigh, taking a minute to lean against the expensively-papered wall and clear his mind, eyes fluttering closed.<p>

And when he opened them, he nearly jumped out of his skin—a door across the hall and a few feet down was open, and the owner of the room was standing in the doorway with his keys in hand, watching him curiously.

Before Kurt had the chance to snap at the stranger for scaring him (with heart disease in his immediate family, sudden shocks were clearly undesirable), the boy took a step forward, pulling the door shut behind him. "That's Blaine's room," he said, glancing at the door that Kurt had just exited. "Would that make you Kurt?"

Kurt felt his annoyance ebbing away—if the stranger lived right down the hall and knew who Kurt was, he was obviously friendly with Blaine. "I am," he confirmed, not bothering to hide his curiosity. "How did you…"

"Blaine left Warbler practice early today," the boy explained, slipping his keys into his pocket. "He said that he was having a special visitor this afternoon, and since you're not in uniform, I assumed that you were him."

Kurt preened a little at the idea of Blaine describing him as 'special' to people. Especially when his choice of adjectives could have been a lot worse. "You're a Warbler, then?" he asked politely, falling into step with the stranger as they headed for the stairs.

The boy nodded proudly. "I'll be the Head of the Council, in a few days," he confided in Kurt.

Kurt nodded back, suitably impressed. "Congratulations on your promotion…" He trailed off inquisitively, not quite sure who it was that he was congratulating.

The stranger shook his head self-deprecatingly. "Forgive my manners," he excused himself, holding out his hand for Kurt to shake. "My name's Wes. Blaine and I met quite a while back."

Kurt shook his hand, head buzzing as he tried to remember if Blaine had ever mentioned any of his Warbler friends by name—and it sounded as if Blaine and Wes actually _were_ friends, and not just neighbors who happened to be teammates.

If he had, Kurt couldn't remember it.

"Actually, I'm glad that I ran into you," Wes continued as they made their way down the staircase. "Perhaps you can convince Blaine to accept a more active leadership role in the Warblers next year."

Kurt, who was a step in front of Wes, glanced back in confusion. "What do you mean?" he wondered out loud. "Did you want him to join your Council, too?"

Wes smiled. "No, nothing like that," he told Kurt, clearly amused at the prospect. "The vote for next year's section leaders and soloists is tomorrow, and Blaine's fully eligible to participate, since he's been one of us for more than thirty days, now. After a considerable amount of prodding"—Wes raised his eyebrows, giving Kurt a knowing, significant look—"he agreed to audition for the backup soloist position, but he and everyone else knows that he'd be the favorite for the lead soloist position if he'd agree to submit his name."

Kurt's immediate reaction to Wes's explanation was surprise—Blaine had mentioned, while they were packing, that he almost hadn't joined the Warblers at all, but hadn't said anything about how well he was doing.

And even more shocking than that was that Kurt wasn't even the slightest bit jealous of how quickly or easily the opportunity had fallen into Blaine's lap.

"That's wonderful," he replied honestly, making a mental note to ask Blaine about it the next time that they talked. "He deserves it."

"He's exquisitely talented," Wes agreed, leading Kurt down the hall and opening the front door for him. "And like I said, when I heard that you were coming, I hoped that perhaps he'd mention the situation to you, and that your opinion would have some sway with him." Closing the main door behind them, Wes smiled sadly at Kurt. "You're the first visitor he's had so far, besides his family," he added.

Kurt nodded, swallowing the sudden, painful lump in his throat.

"Is he—do you think he's happy here?" he asked Wes quietly as they walked down the path.

Wes's eyes widened. "Oh, he's doing very well here," he rushed to assure Kurt. "He's enormously well liked, as you must know, and he's getting excellent grades in his classes, now that he's caught up with the material."

Kurt shook his head impatiently, feeling vaguely as if he had stepped into a parent-teacher conference. "No, I know all that," he lied—he'd surmised as much from Blaine's stories and explanations, but Blaine had never officially confirmed any of it. "But is he _happy, _here?"

Wes sighed, somewhat reluctantly. "He wasn't, for a while," he admitted, with a heavy uneasiness that suggested that Wes considered the truth a personal failure on his own part. "He was certainly overwhelmed by everything for the first couple of weeks that he was here, much more so than I would have expected.

"But I think he's getting better now," he added, glancing at Kurt hopefully. "Obviously he still has some inner turmoil to work through, but maybe the summer vacation will give him the opportunity to rest and heal, somewhat."

Kurt decided that he liked Wes—for all his pomposity (and who didn't love a good SAT vocabulary word, now and then?), he seemed to genuinely like Blaine, and that was good enough for him.

"I hope you're right," he responded, offering Wes a kind smile.

* * *

><p>The drive back home felt twice as long as before, although the traffic on the road was nearly as nonexistent as it had been on the way out to Westerville.<p>

Kurt drummed absently on the steering wheel, impatient to make it home. He was both relieved and saddened by his visit—pleased that he'd gotten to see Blaine and that, while they hadn't really delved into any serious topics, there was a lot more reason to be hopeful about their future than before; disheartened that even though he'd seen Blaine, it would be several weeks before he'd have the chance to see him in person again, although the lack of radio silence over the summer would certainly make things easier; mixed feelings that, according to Wes—whom he'd exchanged numbers with, just in case—Blaine was doing both better and worse than he'd hoped for.

It was nearly 7:30 by the time Kurt pulled into him driveway, and he knew that Burt would be eager to get dinner started. Pulling his key out of the ignition, Kurt grabbed his bag off of the seat next to him, mind already flipping through possible dinner ideas that would take less than fifteen minutes to prepare. In his haste, he managed to sweep Blaine's notebook onto the floor; swearing softly under his breath, he bent over and picked it up.

Two post it notes fluttered to the ground.

Kurt stared.

He quickly opened the notebook, his eyes widening as he leafed through the pages and realized why the whole thing had felt so much thicker and heavier than usual—more post it notes covered in Blaine's handwriting, hundreds of them, were stuck to every page.

Slamming it shut and clutching it tightly to his chest to keep any more of the notes from falling out, Kurt leaned over the seat and grabbed the two messages that had managed to escape. The first one, from over a month before, made him smile:

_My audition is in half an hour, _it read, _and I'm using the song that we almost went with for Evaluations. I still don't think that I sound at all like Johnny Rzeznik, but thank you for saying it xoxoxo_

Shaking his head in amusement, Kurt slipped the note into his pocket and looked down at the other message. The second note was slightly crumpled, and Blaine's handwriting was miniscule, covering the little paper with ink, and Kurt had to squint at it in order to figure out what it said.

When he did, though, his breath hitched and his chest tightened, and his eyes blurred with tears so thick and fast that he could no longer read the same three words, written over and over again on the tiny square of paper:

_I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you…_


	31. Chapter 31

31/33, and definitely the longest chapter yet. Buckle up, kids, we're experimenting with format in order to balance out all the Sheer Content that managed to worm its way in. That, combined with the Olympics, my birthday, and some good old fashioned bone breakage, doth contribute to the week-lateness of this chapter. Sorry sorry sorry you're all pretty. (And review responses are coming as soon as I'm back from physical therapy, promise!)

I don't own Glee (which last year was a tragedy; this year, it's a clever way to avoid the hate mail) or the ACLU, and I don't even know if Lima has a zoo. Whoops.

* * *

><p><em>The first page of post it notes in Blaine's notebook didn't seem to be in any sort of chronological order; at least, not as far as Kurt could tell:<em>

_My new math tutor is a junior at Crawford, _one read_. I think they make the Homework Resource Center co-ed to encourage more of us to use it, but it's just making me miss your brain even more. Also, you would hate the uniforms those poor Crawford girls have to wear to school every day._

_I tripped over a tree root when I was running today and almost fell on my face. I'm glad you didn't see me wipe out, but I wish I had some of your aloe balm for the scrapes on my hands right now :(_

_Everyone in my Chem class screwed up the metric system but me this morning. I'm trying not to rub it in, but it feels good to be King._

_I miss kissing you even more than usual today. I don't know why. I just do._

_I almost forgot that I had a Skype appointment with Dr. Ramirez earlier, and I had to run across campus to make it back to my room in time. I wish you were here._

* * *

><p>The day after Kurt went to visit Blaine at Dalton, Shelby sat the entire team down onstage at the end of rehearsal and announced her imminent retirement from Carmel and Vocal Adrenaline.<p>

"I'll be moving to New York at the end of July," she informed them all, voice steady and calm despite the enormity of her declaration, "so your new director and I will be running the training camp for incoming students together for the first two weeks, before he takes over completely."

Kurt, forewarned about the announcement back in Los Angeles, watched as the entire room erupted into chaos. Though a few of the graduating seniors looked thrilled by the news—especially Ben, who had danced his way into several choice universities (and their obscenely large scholarships) in New York City—nearly everyone else was on the verge of panic, eyes wide with alarm and voices shrieking over each other as the whole team simultaneously tried to figure out what the bombshell meant, and why Shelby was leaving, and who their new director was, and whether he had the credentials to lead _Vocal Adrenaline, _the premier show choir in the entire nation (and possibly the Western Hemisphere).

Gaze drifting aimlessly through the mild hysteria, Kurt's eyes fell on Jesse.

Jesse, who was sitting quietly on the opposite side of the stage, observing all the noise and confusion in the same way that Kurt was doing. He looked up without warning, as if he'd felt Kurt watching him, and their eyes locked. With a slow smile, he nodded at Kurt, confirming what he had already suspected—that Shelby had warned him about her decision ahead of time, too.

A sharp jab at his ribcage from Sasha distracted Kurt, and he tore his gaze away from Jesse and grabbed her fingers before she could poke him a second time. By the time he glanced back, Jesse was deep in conversation with Andrea.

If he looked back at Kurt again, Kurt didn't see it.

* * *

><p><em>There weren't any post it notes on the ninth page of Blaine's notebook. Instead, Blaine had taped in a sheet of paper with two jagged edges that had clearly been torn from somewhere else; a sketch of two stick figures lying on the beach underneath a giant umbrella, holding hands and smiling. One of the stick figures was wearing what looked like a giant parka with a fur-lined hood, and was holding a bottle that was the same size as his little ink head. It was labeled 'SPF 10 Million'.<em>

_Kurt laughed until his stomach hurt._

* * *

><p>Shelby eventually managed to calm everyone down, and ended rehearsal with a promise to bring their future coach's performance reel and resume—the ones that had firmly vaulted him into first place for her personal choice for her replacement—in for them to view on Friday. A betting pool was formed by a number of the juniors over who the new Vocal Adrenaline director would be—Kurt was privately certain that Andy would win, since Sarabeth's obvious (and hopeless) crush on him would probably result in her offering him help—and as the team exited the school and spilled out into the parking lot, Kurt took his time following along, listening to their increasingly outlandish and unlikely guesses.<p>

Waving goodbye to Sasha and Ryleigh, who were bickering good-naturedly over the likelihood of Hinton Battle coming out of retirement to move to _Ohio, _Kurt headed down the third row of cars to his parking spot.

And somehow, he wasn't surprised to see Jesse there, casually leaning against the front door of his Navigator.

As Kurt approached him (and the car) with a light sigh, Jesse glanced around the parking lot at their chattering teammates, before looking back at Kurt and raising an eyebrow significantly. Even after everything that had happened between them, Kurt didn't have to ask what he'd meant by that. Instead, he stopped a few feet in front of Jesse and waited quietly; wrapping his hands around the strap of his book bag and watching Jesse watch the parking lot as it slowly emptied.

When they were finally alone, Jesse turned back to Kurt, his eyes bigger and darker than usual. "Congratulations on being made the lead singer," he offered, no trace of sarcasm or patronization in his voice.

Kurt frowned for a moment, wondering at first how he'd known that, until... "Shelby told you," he figured it out.

Jesse smiled wryly. "She told me that she was going to offer it to you," he corrected. "And I knew that there was no way that you'd turn it down." He shrugged awkwardly. "I was surprised that she didn't mention it today, though," he added. "Perhaps she thought that her retirement was enough explosive news for one day."

Kurt could have told him that he'd asked Shelby not to announce it yet, when she'd passed him in the hallway between classes that day and had mentioned it to him as a possibility. But he wasn't entirely sure himself why he had asked her to wait, and Jesse would never get around to saying what he'd waited by Kurt's car to say if Kurt offered him a weakness to latch onto, like a shark sensing blood in the water.

He stood quietly instead, gazing at Jesse expectantly.

Either noticing his expression, or realizing that Kurt wasn't planning on indulging his procrastination, Jesse sighed heavily, letting his shoulders drop. "I'm not good at apologies," he reminded Kurt, admitting the fact in an almost resentful tone. "It's one of the few things that doesn't come naturally to me."

Kurt nodded slowly, not breaking eye contact. "Normally, I suppose I'd tell you to say it like you mean it," he replied carefully, choosing his words with a precision that was becoming sadly familiar, given the alarming number of important conversations that had occurred that week. "But I know how talented an actor you are. And I'm not interested in hearing that you're sorry if it doesn't really matter to you."

Jesse's eyes flashed. "It _does,_ though," he argued, frustrated. "I don't _like _hurting you, you know."

His voice softened, and he looked away from Kurt. "Maybe my reasons…" he began, before breaking off, clearly struggling to articulate his thoughts much more than Kurt had. "But I never did anything with the intention of hurting you," he tried again, gazing back at Kurt imploringly. "You have to know that."

Kurt's hand tightened around the leather strap of his bag. "Hurting me was just a side effect," he finished drolly, looking at Jesse for confirmation.

He received it. "Exactly," Jesse agreed with a slight smile.

Kurt closed his eyes.

_And the sad thing is, _he thought, _I'm almost positive that that's a reasonable justification to him._

Kurt tilted his head from side to side, loosening muscles that were starting to become almost painfully tight, before opening his eyes. Jesse was watching him steadily, clearly waiting for Kurt to reply.

He did. "You have to understand that that's not going to be good enough for me, anymore," he told Jesse, keeping his face and voice as solemn as he could, wanting to impress upon him how seriously he meant it. "You…mean more to me than I'm comfortable admitting sometimes, but if we're going to be friends, you can't—"

He paused, thinking.

"I need to decide what's right for me, not you," he said finally, bluntly. "I'll always listen to your advice, if you have it, but it isn't your job to run my life, and I'm allowed to make choices that you don't like without your interference. I want to be your _friend, _Jesse; I really do. But I won't be your puppet."

It was Kurt's turn to stare at Jesse, waiting for a response. And at first, Jesse was so still and expressionless that Kurt wasn't sure if he was going to get one. Several seconds later, though, a familiar warmth flooded Jesse's eyes and, slowly, slowly, he began to smile.

"Kurt Hummel," he said softly, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're all grown up now, Grasshopper. When did that happen?"

* * *

><p>Jesse's car was parked at the farthest edge of the parking lot, and Kurt ended up walking him over to it. "You know that I'm not the only one you need to apologize to," he stated frankly, glancing over at Jesse before looking back down at the pavement, kicking a piece of gravel out of the way with the tip of his boot.<p>

Jesse groaned childishly. "You're going to make me apologize to your unfortunately fragile little ex-boyfriend, aren't you?" he guessed, frowning.

Kurt frowned back, refusing to respond to Jesse's description of Blaine. "I'm not going to _make_ you do anything," he disagreed, "and I don't think he's ready to hear it from you, anyway." He paused. "Mostly, I was talking about—"

"I know who you were talking about," Jesse interrupted, before Kurt could say 'Rachel'."And that's a conversation I'd be happy to have with you in the future; maybe around your 30th birthday when I need to distract you from your inevitable decline into wrinkles and old age."

Kurt, recognizing the obvious dismissal for what it was, let the subject drop.

Fishing his keys out of his pocket, Jesse tapped a button and unlocked the doors of his car with a soft _click. _"So," he asked Kurt softly, an enigmatic smile on his face, "does this mean we're associating in public again, then?"

His stare was as hypnotic as it had ever been, but Kurt found it easier to pull his gaze away than usual. "Almost," he answered, glancing at his own car across the parking lot before turning back. "First, I need you to do something for me."

* * *

><p><em>The first picture text that Kurt received from Blaine arrived early on Saturday afternoon, when Kurt was just getting back to the shop with everyone's sandwiches (all on whole grain bread and with mustard instead of mayo, a show of solidarity from the mechanics now that Burt had changed his diet completely around that had made Kurt choke up the first time he saw it): a wide shot of Niagara Falls, a boat visible through the resulting spray and a few drops of mist clinging to the screen.<em>

_The second arrived nearly two hours later: Blaine, standing underneath the belly of a giant, vicious-looking T-Rex, holding a golf club and smiling beneath a new pair of sunglasses._

You are such a dork, _Kurt texted him in return, setting the picture as his phone's background. _

_Blaine's reply came almost immediately: _;D

* * *

><p>With only a few days of school remaining, Kurt had less homework than ever to worry about, and was able to devote more of his time to other things. Most notably, getting a reluctant Burt in shape.<p>

"I'm telling you, Kiddo, I'd feel a lot better about this if I could do it in normal clothes," Burt grumbled on Sunday, eyeing Kurt's arms and adjusting his own position slightly. "It's not like the fitness police are gonna bust in here and drag me off to jail for wearing real pants."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Denim doesn't breathe well," he explained for what felt like the fiftieth time, glancing at the screen and sliding fluidly into the next stance. "And you're lucky that I bought you yoga pants—I could have asked Jesse for one of his Tai Chi outfits, too, and stuck you in that."

When Burt had been cleared for a larger amount of exercise at his latest doctor's appointment, he'd rejected several of the activities on the physician's list out of hand, claiming that "I'm gonna need another kind of doctor to untangle me if I break my back trying to do yoga", and that "nobody wants to see a guy my size in a Speedo, Buddy; let me lose a little more of the old Beer Gut, first".

He'd briefly considered powerwalking, until Kurt had jokingly threatened to set him up with the group of stay-at-home-moms and bored housewives that banded together every morning in an unholy congregation of animal-print spandex to speedwalk around the neighborhood.

That left table tennis and Tai Chi on the list of suggested exercises, and fortunately for Burt—"They can call it 'tennis' all they want to; it's still just Ping-Pong"—Jesse had come through with half a dozen _Tai Chi for Beginners _DVDs.

"Yeah, like that skinny twerp has any clothes that would fit me," Burt retorted grumpily, frowning back and forth between Kurt and the television before attempting to copy Kurt's position.

Kurt, privately agreeing, wisely chose not to comment.

Halfway into the 45-minute video, Kurt paused the DVD and passed his dad one of the two chilled bottles of water that he'd placed on the coffee table. "Only five minutes," he warned, cracking the seal on his bottle and taking a sip. "And we're working up to doing the whole thing without a break, so don't get used to resting."

Burt rolled his eyes skyward. "How did I manage to raise a kid with no sense of fun?" he asked the ceiling rhetorically, plopping down on the couch and opening his own water. "It's like living with a 95-lb drill sergeant."

Kurt closed his eyes. "Yes," he deadpanned, "because the military would _love _me. And I'm just doing what the doctor said. Do you miss the hospital so much that _that's _a better choice than developing your cardiovascular fitness?"

Burt snorted, gulping his water. "Nurse was pretty," he admitted after a minute, not quite looking at Kurt. "I ran into her at the store yesterday, while you were out. She's got a kid your age, but way bigger." He held his hand in the air as high as he could reach to show Kurt. "Built like The Hulk. He had to bend over just to push the shopping cart."

Kurt almost choked on his water at the image.

Burt nodded. "I don't know," he added. "I don't know if you'd like him or not, but I thought maybe we could ask them over for dinner sometime, to say thank you for taking care of me when I was in the hospital, and then again when you were on your trip. I don't know if they'd come, but…"

His dad trailed off nervously, and Kurt stared at him sharply, not sure if he'd heard what he thought he'd heard. "Dad," he asked slowly, putting his water down, "are you asking my permission to start dating again?"

Burt scoffed. "You boss me around enough these days as it is," he pointed out. "I'm not putting you in charge of anything else."

Kurt nodded, and they were both quiet. After a moment, however, Burt rubbed the back of his neck. "How weird would it be for you if I did want to…I don't know, maybe think about seeing someone again?" he asked Kurt carefully, watching him as Kurt looked down at the folded hands in his lap.

Kurt thought about it honestly. He'd read enough fairy tales with evil stepmothers in them when he was little that, had Burt asked him five years earlier, the question would have been met with a resounding tantrum. And in the years since then, the two of them had settled into such an interdependent dynamic that it was hard to imagine shaking it up and allowing anyone else—and, potentially, her gigantic offspring—in. But even if Kurt mildly resented the idea of having to change their home life to accommodate girlfriends or families, the truth was that he had considered the idea before, and had always grudgingly concluded that he'd undergo whatever discomfort and awkwardness that he had to in order to make sure that his dad was happy. Burt had devoted years of his life to taking care of Kurt and making sure that his needs were met, even while grieving the loss of his wife. He deserved to find someone that would make him happy, especially given that Kurt would be going to college within a few years (and had no intention of staying in Ohio when he did).

_And, _he realized, looking back at his dad, _it's not like everything isn't changing for us now, anyway. He could do a lot worse than a nurse._

There was only one thing that truly bothered Kurt, and had bothered him every time he'd considered the possibility of Burt finding someone new. "I'm not calling her Mom, if the two of you get married," he warned, meeting Burt's wary gaze. "I had a mom, and nobody can replace her for me, even if we become a new family."

Burt laughed. "Who said anything about getting married?" he wondered out loud, grabbing Kurt's shoulder and shaking him affectionately. "I just wanted to have her over for dinner, maybe give you a chance to test out that lasagna recipe you've had clipped to the fridge for a week."

"It's heart healthy," Kurt protested, but without venom—his dad had put down his water bottle and was holding out his arms, and Kurt, like the little boy he once was, leaned into them.

"I'm glad you're still here, Dad," he said after a minute, and smiled as Burt squeezed him a little tighter.

"I know, Buddy," his dad replied, resting his head on Kurt's hair. "Me too."

* * *

><p>"<em>I don't want to keep you up too late," Blaine pretended to worry, his voice warm and familiar in Kurt's ear. "You have school in the morning, and I don't want you to be too tired to get up at 6:00am and go to all of those classes, do all that learning, maybe take a quiz or two…"<em>

_Kurt scowled at him, forgetting briefly that Blaine couldn't see him over the phone. "You are not funny," he informed Blaine, who laughed in response. "You are not funny, and your concern is clearly a deflection: you're pretending to worry about me so that you don't have to worry about _you _being too tired to ride a moose or drive your dogsled team to the General Store to procure more flannel shirts and maple syrup. I'm onto you."_

_Blaine continued to laugh. "You're going to be so disappointed if you ever come visit me here," he told Kurt. "The Mounties only bring the mooses around twice a month for us to ride."_

_By the time Kurt realized that Blaine had tenuously implied a future for them that involved international travel, Blaine had already spiraled off on a tangent, trying to figure out what the plural for 'moose' really was._

* * *

><p>Wednesday was the last day of school at Carmel and, despite Blaine's teasing, none of Kurt's teachers handed out any quizzes. Instead, they used the time to pass back stacks of assignments and report cards, show movies, collect textbooks, or allow the students to take turns signing each other's yearbooks.<p>

Kurt spent the better part of first period with his arms wrapped around Sasha, absorbing her presence while he still could—her mother, after two weeks of hemming and hawing, had accepted a job offer in Monterey, and Sasha's entire family was moving across the country in August.

"Cheer _up, _Ladybug," she snapped at him from his lap without malice, after Kurt had squeezed her so hard that her ribs had begun to creak audibly. "You're going to come visit me over Spring Break next year, and we'll take turns tossing each other into the ocean. Even if it is on the wrong side."

Her grudging tone made Kurt smile—Sasha had moved to Ohio before starting the 6th grade, but had spent the first eleven years of her life in Virginia Beach.

"Then in two years, we'll be together again," she promised, poking him in the abdomen. "New York or L.A., remember?"

Kurt sniffed. "I remember," he acknowledged wearily. "I'm just going to miss you. And I hate that everyone's leaving—you, Blaine, Jesse, Ben, James, _Shelby…_"

He trailed off, blinking rapidly. He'd thought about the implications of each one of them leaving or graduating on an individual level, but hadn't realized just how many people he was losing at the same time.

It was a daunting list.

Sasha let her head fall onto Kurt's shoulder, reaching up lazily to tousle his hair. "Don't whine; it's unattractive," she advised him, and he glared down at her while fixing his hair with one hand. "And I'm not crazy about leaving everyone behind, either. But we have most of the summer together, and if you really miss me, you'll write back when I send you letters and call me when you promise that you're going to."

She fluttered her eyelashes up at him, smiling. "That's how I'll know you're _really _my Prince Charming," he informed him sweetly. "Anyone can be your friend when they see you every day. True love requires work, Hummel. Make sure you're worth my good graces."

* * *

><p><em>Gym class here is very civilized, <em>the post it note read. _I know how to play Polo now; in theory, at least. I keep thinking about the time you did a headstand in my room for over four minutes, just because I said I didn't think you could hold it for more than two. Your face was __**so **__red, and when I made you lie down on my bed afterwards, your heart was beating faster than I'd ever felt it. _

* * *

><p>Kurt was surreptitiously reading the signatures in his yearbook under the table, ignoring the ending of the bland, uninteresting movie they'd been watching in Chemistry all week, when the classroom phone rang with instructions for Kurt to head down to Shelby's office as soon as he had the chance. Receiving permission to leave from Mr. Michaels, Kurt quickly tossed his things into his book bag and rushed down the stairs toward the music wing, both curious and hopeful for a short meeting—8th period was nearly over, and Coach Walker had them doing yoga in gym class. When he reached the doorway to Shelby's office, however, he stopped short, previous thoughts forgotten.<p>

The room had been ransacked, with Shelby's personal items stowed in two large boxes next to the filing cabinet, the recycling bin overflowing with discarded paperwork, and several storage bins filled with costumes and other items belonging to Carmel or the music department stacked against the closest wall.

On her desk, the only remaining item on the dusty wood grain besides a set of keys, was an impossibly tiny baby, asleep in a sturdy-looking car seat.

Kurt stared.

The baby was clearly a girl, dressed in a snug, pink-striped outfit—unless Shelby was having fun messing with everyone's gender expectations, which was always a possibility. Her nose was little, barely there in between her chubby cheeks, and while her eyes were closed—Kurt thought he'd read somewhere that babies started out with blue eyes, but couldn't remember why, or even if it was really true—the slightest hint of blonde peach fuzz was visible underneath the hot pink hat that had slid off of her head at some point.

Hesitantly, so as not to wake her up, Kurt reached into the car seat and carefully slid the hat back into place. The baby stirred slightly, but kept sleeping, and Kurt let out a nearly silent sigh of relief.

"That's Beth."

Kurt flinched sharply—surprised at seeing the baby on the desk, he hadn't even thought to look around the office for Shelby when he had arrived. Heart pounding in his chest, he looked down at his hands, then at Beth. Luckily for everyone, Shelby had waited until he'd pulled away from the car seat to scare him, or he might have knocked the whole contraption, the baby included, onto the floor.

If Shelby noticed her daughter's near-death experience, she didn't mention it. "Her birth mom has blonde hair, too," she said instead, reaching out and gently stroking the baby's cheek.

Kurt turned slightly to look at her. Shelby was watching Beth sleep with an enchanted expression that he'd never seen on her face before.

"I know most parents want their baby to look like them," she continued, not taking her eyes off of Beth. "But I wouldn't mind if she stayed just like this."

Kurt couldn't blame her. He had almost no experience with babies—or new mothers, for that matter—but Beth was far more adorable than he'd been in his baby pictures, squalling and red and eyes squished shut. Soft and delicate-looking, Beth could have been a baby model, staring in Pampers or formula ads across the country.

_And who knows, _he remembered, _if Shelby's about to move them both to New York, maybe she will be._

Shelby shook her head, recovering. "I have something for you," she told Kurt, turning away from the desk and grabbing an oversized manila envelope from the top drawer of her filing cabinet. "It came yesterday. I meant to give it to you after rehearsal, but as you can see, it's been a little chaotic in here."

Smiling unapologetically at Kurt, she fished through the envelope with one hand, pulling out a crisp, folded piece of stationary with his name on the outside. Curious, Kurt took the paper and unfolded it, sitting down in Shelby's desk chair to read it while Shelby sorted through one of the massive bins by the door.

The letter was handwritten, and the spidery script was unfamiliar, but somehow Kurt knew just by looking at it who the writer was.

_Dear Mr. Hummel, _Sarita wrote,

_My congratulations on your second National Championship win; I hope that it's a trend that will continue for you in the two years to come. After giving more thought to your personal circumstances, I've been in touch with Kenneth McClaren, one of my closest colleagues and a personal friend, as well as a sometime-instructor here in our Voice and Muscial Theatre programs. Kenneth is a private vocal instructor and, after discussing your abilities with me, has agreed to take you on as a student for the summer. He's worked with a great many countertenors in his years of teaching, and is always my first choice as a coach for students with more unique ranges. I've written his contact information below, and he's expecting to hear from you before the end of the month to schedule your first lesson._

_Disappointed though I am not to have you in the program this year, I fully expect to see you at auditions next spring. Though I cannot, as a matter of policy, hold a space open for you in next summer's Musical Theatre class, I can hint to you that, should you perform at least as well as you did before—though given that you will have had another year to grow and develop, I expect to witness continued improvements—you may find that your audition is something more of a formality than the last time._

_Best Wishes to you and your family,_

_Sarita Jackson_

_Director of the Young Pre-Professional Summer Performance Academy_

When Kurt looked up, wide-eyed, Shelby was watching him. "Sarita wrote to me as well," she told him, before he had to ask. "And I've met Kenneth. It's a bit of a drive out to his studio, but he's excellent at what he does, Kurt. And he rarely takes on new students, or I would have mentioned him to you and Andy before."

Kurt took a deep breath. "I really want this," he admitted, glancing back down at the letter and eyeing the postscript, where Sarita had written the phone number and address of Kenneth's studio. _Bellefontaine, _he read, calculating feverishly. _That's not even as far away as Blaine and Westerville._

Shelby was nodding. "I don't blame you; this is a marvelous opportunity, Kurt," she agreed. "Probably the best vocal instruction you're going to get without studying at an intensive program."

A sudden thought occurred to Kurt, making his stomach twist and his palms sweat. "He's never heard me sing," he pointed out worriedly. "What if he doesn't like my voice?"

Shelby looked at him skeptically. "What happened to the Kurt Hummel who believed in himself?" she countered. "If he doesn't like your voice, _make _him change his mind. Sweetheart, I know you're trying to take care of everyone else in your life right now, and that's great, but don't swing so far in the other direction that you don't go after the things that you want for _you, _too. You're better than this."

The bell rang, waking Beth and distracting Shelby, before Kurt could figure out what he wanted to say in response.

* * *

><p>"<em>I've been setting all of my change aside," Blaine murmured quietly into the phone late one night. "Not the loonies or toonies, because they're more like dollars, but all of the other coins. On my birthday, I'm going to dump them all into the fountain in handfuls and make a wish."<em>

_Kurt laughed softly, closing his eyes. "What are you going to wish for?" he wondered sleepily, stifling a yawn as he burrowed a little further into his pillow._

_Blaine's voice was reproving. "If I tell you, it won't come true," he reminded Kurt. "That's, like, the cardinal rule of birthday wishes."_

_Kurt scoffed lazily. "Fine," he retorted, "don't tell me. I still hope it comes true, because I'm not a vindictive person, but see if I tell you _my _birthday wish in the fall."_

_He could practically hear Blaine smiling. "I would never ask," Blaine pointed out. "And I hope it comes true, too."_

_The silence that followed was thick with some emotion that Kurt was too tired to decipher. When he woke up the next morning, he'd forgotten it entirely._

_.._

_When the mail came and a shoebox-sized package addressed in familiar handwriting arrived on the doorstep, Kurt sliced at the packing tape with a box cutter as quickly as he could without cutting himself, biting his lip in anticipation. When enough of the tape had been severed, Kurt pried open the lid to reveal a tin of maple sugar candies that had been molded to look like little maple leaves, fourteen gingersnaps made with backstrap molasses, and a neatly folded, well-worn blue flannel shirt. When Kurt lifted the shirt out of the box and shook it out, a sheet of paper escaped the fabric and tumbled to the floor._

_If Burt had any questions about the sudden appearance of a new drawing on the refrigerator—two stick figures in Mountie hats, smiling and sitting on top of a moose—he kept them to himself._

* * *

><p>One week after school had officially closed for the summer, Kurt was back at the zoo, sketching a sleeping lion with the charcoal pencils and thick vellum paper he'd dug out of a box in his closet specifically for the occasion.<p>

After his original plan for the day had been foiled by Burt, who had casually made clear at breakfast that Kurt would absolutely not be working more than four days a week at the garage that summer if he wanted to keep his coveralls, Kurt had done as much of his required summer reading as he could stand before giving up and driving out to the zoo to work on his drawing—his artistic skills had gotten slightly rusty since he'd started high school, but being able to send a homemade card along with Blaine's to-be-determined birthday gift was decent motivation to practice. And if doing so helped him feel closer to Blaine…

Well, that was just an unexpected perk.

In the hour and a half since Kurt had started sketching (minus fifteen minutes for a bathroom break/drink run), dozens of people had come through the exhibit, talking and laughing and pointing and taking pictures. Kurt ignored them, focusing on his work; nobody had stayed long enough to bother him, since the three lions that were within the enclosure were all sleeping anyway.

Kurt had had the room to himself for nearly five minutes when the doors swung open again. Concentrating on getting the shape of the lion's front paw perfectly proportional, Kurt didn't look up from his sketchpad, letting the sound of the conversation between the two speakers wash over him.

"…_maybe San Francisco, but their lions…"_

"…_the phone with San Diego, and they said…"_

"…_in Miami won't; they have a lioness pregnant now…afraid he might kill the cubs if they introduce another male too soon."_

Kurt's head snapped up at the mention of killing cubs, and only then did he notice that one of the two men deep in conversation a few yards away from him was wearing the khaki shirt and laminated security pass of one of the zoo's veterinarians.

"It would be a lot easier to place him next year, or even a year after that," he was saying to his companion, a well-dressed older man who also wore a security pass. "We may have to work with one of our bigger partners to arrange something with one of _their _partners."

The older man sighed. "An expensive logistical nightmare," he deduced unhappily. "Desra will love that. Which one is he?"

The veterinarian pointed to the lion that Kurt had been sketching.

The blood drained from Kurt's face. He hadn't been sure which little lion it was that he'd been drawing for Blaine, but the vet was obviously familiar enough with him—or else knew better than Kurt how to tell male cubs from the female ones—to instantly pick out Rafiki.

And yet, _he'd_ been the one that had mentioned something about killing cubs. Kurt's mouth was open before he could stop himself. "You're not going to hurt Rafiki, are you?" he asked, his voice coming out in a much higher pitch than usual.

Both men turned swiftly to look at Kurt with surprised looks on their faces, as if they hadn't even realized that they weren't alone in the room.

"No, of course not," the veterinarian told Kurt, recovering first. "We've got a great team here; nobody who works for the zoo would ever do anything to hurt one of our animals."

Kurt chewed on his lip. "But you said…" he began, realizing that it was a ridiculous idea, but still not convinced that he shouldn't be worried about Rafiki.

The vet hesitated, glancing at the other man for approval before answering. "Nobody's going to hurt Rafiki," he promised, once the well-dressed man had nodded. "We're just trying to find a new home for him, and it's proving to be a little more difficult than we'd hoped."

Kurt gripped the fence with his free hand, his knuckles turning white. Of course Rafiki going to another zoo was so much better than him being _euthanized, _but it was still wrenching news, if only because Blaine was going to be heartbroken when he heard. "Why?" he managed to ask.

Once again, the zoo employees exchanged looks before the vet let out a sigh. "Placing male lions in other zoos or sanctuaries can be difficult, unless they're at a very specific age," he explained. "They're either too young to be on their own or to fight for space or acceptance into another pride, or they're old enough to be a threat to any pride with cubs or cubs on the way."

He frowned sadly, looking over at Rafiki, who had stretched one paw out in his sleep. "Ideally, we'd like to let him go in another year, year and a half—prides are centered around female lions, and he'd be in conflict with them if he stayed here much longer than that."

Kurt shook his head roughly. "I meant, why are you getting rid of him?" he clarified, frowning back. "If it's so hard to find a new home for him now, and you don't really want to?"

The other man put a hand on the veterinarian's shoulder, and Kurt squinted to see the name on his security pass: _Alan Patrickson, Zoo Director._

"We _don't _really want to," Mr. Patrickson said, speaking up for the first time since the men had noticed Kurt. "But the cubs that we have are starting to grow up—they need more territory, more food. If we had the money to expand the exhibit next to this one this year, to give them more room to roam outdoors, and to feed and care for a fourth lion, then of course we'd keep him; we don't want to get rid of him while he's still so young. Not if we don't have to."

"We'd restructure the outdoor space at some point anyway," the vet added. "We were supposed to do it this year. But donations were down this season, and if we had three lions instead of four, it could be put off for another couple of years. And since Rafiki would have to go to another zoo in the near future anyway, he was the obvious choice to rehome."

Slowly, Kurt nodded, processing all of the information. It made an unfortunate amount of sense, and even if he didn't like the zoo's decision, he had to respect it—romantic as he was, money and logic were two things that Kurt understood very well. "So, it's just the expenses related to keeping him, and the expansion?" he wanted to know, looking back and forth between the two men. "You're not compensated for giving him to another zoo?"

Mr. Patrickson shook his head vehemently. "That's not how it works," he was quick to explain. "We might have the cost of transporting him covered by the receiving zoo, but we don't _sell _animals—they're given as gifts or loans to other institutions, or taken on by zoos with the resources and availability to care for them when their current homes no longer can."

Kurt looked back at the lions in the pen, thinking. It was heartbreaking that one of them would be forced out of his home when he was still so young, but the zoo had the situation under control. It wasn't his place to interfere, and doing so would likely be a massive—not to mention expensive—undertaking.

Unbidden, an image of Blaine flashed through Kurt's mind; how Blaine would look when he found out that one of his lions had disappeared forever while he was gone.

Kurt closed his eyes, resigned.

_The things I do for you, _he thought grimly.

Turning back to the two men, Kurt smiled fatalistically. "I don't suppose there's anyone I could talk to about what, specifically, the costs of keeping Rafiki here for another year would be?" he wondered out loud.

Mr. Patrickson blinked at him, nonplussed. The vet smiled back kindly. "Do you write for your school paper?" he guessed, scratching at his wrist.

Kurt stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the idea of _him _as a student reporter. "No," he answered evenly. "I just want to see if it would be possible to raise the money you need to take care of Rafiki for a little longer."

The vet and Mr. Patrickson stared at him.

When it became clear that Kurt wasn't kidding, Mr. Patrickson stepped forward. "Son, it's fantastic that you want to help," he told Kurt, spreading his hands out helplessly. "We always value community support. But we're talking about thousands of dollars, here."

Kurt's stomach clenched. Still, he stood his ground. "You were planning on expanding the exhibit this year," he reminded the director, his tone polite but businesslike. "You must have gotten a financial estimate for that at some point."

"About $2,000," the vet confirmed, still staring at Kurt with no small degree of incredulity. "We used to have elephants next door, six or seven years ago, so everything's reinforced; most of the expense is just the cost of moving the sections of fencing in between the two areas in order to connect the perimeters."

Kurt breathed an internal sigh of relief at the relatively low number—if the number of thousands had been in the double digits or even higher, he couldn't have possibly gone through with his rapidly-forming plan. "I go to Carmel High School," he told Mr. Patrickson. "We've got the most active Booster Clubs in the Midwest, and our Environmental Club is ranked among the top five in the country."

_Never mind that they can't stand Vocal Adrenaline, ever since that report came out naming us as the largest energy drain within a 25-mile radius, _he thought ruefully, shaking his head.

"We also have hundreds of students who need community service hours in order to graduate, but are too busy with rehearsals and sports practices and homework during the school year to complete them," he continued, "and I personally have been doing the finances for my family's business for nearly three years. I can't make any guarantees, but if I could talk to someone who can give me some solid figures and deadlines, I can promise to try and help you."

Mr. Patrickson looked genuinely stunned by Kurt's speech, and gazed at him with a guarded expression, clearly unsure what to make of him. "Look," he started, before pausing.

The vet stepped forward, tilting his head to look at Mr. Patrickson. "Desra should be here until 3:00," he said, glancing briefly at Kurt. "I've got an hour to waste, if you want me to take him to see her."

Kurt swallowed, waiting for Mr. Patrickson's answer.

He wasn't quite sure what he was hoping that answer would be.

A moment later, it came—exhaling quietly, Mr. Patrickson shook his head, bewildered. "No, Dylan, that's all right," he said faintly, before turning back to Kurt. "I think I'm going to want to be there for this meeting, too."

* * *

><p><em>Kurt was standing in the kitchen, debating whether to make tacos or burgers with the ground turkey that he had defrosted for dinner, when his phone chimed with a text from Blaine, telling him to check his email. Abandoning the meat in the sink and heading downstairs, Kurt logged onto his computer and opened the latest message. Inside was a picture of Blaine, asleep on a strange couch, with a tiny gray kitten curled up at the base of his throat. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through a nearby window, leaving gleaming patches on Blaine's skin and lighting up glimmering strands of hair, and Kurt's heart melted as he scrolled down the page to read the note underneath:<em>

Me and Mopsy taking a nap in the sunroom, _it read. _Grandma took the picture, but I had to wait for Mopsy to wake up before I could send it to you.

_Dinner was a few minutes late that night._

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes after leaving the lion's den, Kurt was perched on a squeaky gray rolling chair in an extraordinarily messy office, absently listening as Dylan the veterinarian and Desra Mueller, the zoo's part-time Finanical Manager, read numbers off of a spreadsheet, trying to calculate precisely how much money feeding Rafiki would cost the zoo over the following year.<p>

"We order meat in bulk," Desra had informed Kurt without preamble once Mr. Patrickson had introduced them and had explained the situation, "so this is going to take a while. How are good at you at math?"

"Excellent," Kurt had replied breathlessly, unsure whether or not the question—and his answer—meant that he'd be doing all of the calculations himself.

Desra had smiled back. "Good," she'd praised, flipping one of her blonde braids over her shoulder and sliding a clear jar full of loose change across the desk at him. "The lattes at the café are $3.47; Allen County sales tax is 6.5%. Impress me."

Kurt, strongly reminded of Shelby—and a little bit in love—hastened to obey.

..

Less than thirty minutes after Kurt had returned with the $3.70 coffee, Desra and Dylan had finished calculating not only the cost of Rafiki's meat, but his estimated care as well. "I'd say you're looking at a solid $10,500, once you factor in the fence as well," Desra told Kurt, clicking her pen and leaning back in her seat. "$11,000, to be safe. That's an awful lot of money for a student."

Kurt nodded, somewhat disheartened. "That's an awful lot of money for anyone," he agreed. "I don't suppose there's any chance of appealing to your regular donors, is there?"

Mr. Patrickson, who had left the office to make a phone call and had returned just in time to hear Desra's verdict, shook his head. "We can only make two official fundraising appeals to The Friends of the Zoo each year," he explained to Kurt. "There are rules in place to keep us from badgering or petitioning our donors for each new expense or project."

Seeing Kurt's frown, he twisted his mouth into a grim smile that made him look ten years younger. "However," he added, "our monthly newsletter has a fairly substantial circulation, and there aren't any restrictions on advertising outside groups that just so happen to be benefitting the zoo. If you can get a fundraising group together and email me all of the relevant information by the 11th, I can see to it that it's prominently featured both in our publication and on the zoo website."

Desra clicked her pen again, scribbling something down on her yellow legal pad. "It'll take the least amount of time to get the ball rolling if donations go straight to the zoo," she mused, not looking up from her writing. "If you come in tomorrow at 11:30, I'll give you a crash course on how to solicit and collect donations without doing anything illegal or embarrassing yourself or the zoo. Dylan, which of the vets was the one who took the publicity photos for the Holiday Gala?"

Dylan straightened in his chair. "Candace," he answered quickly, clearly thinking along the same lines as Desra. "I'm sure she has more recent shots of the lions that we can use; I'll ask her to email them to you tonight or tomorrow."

Kurt swallowed, his mouth dry. Everything was happening almost faster than he could keep up, and however good his intentions were, he wasn't convinced that he hadn't agreed to spearhead a project that was bigger than he could handle.

He bit down on his lip sharply, tasting iron. Although he wasn't proud of it, a large part of him wanted to take the previous hour back.

"If—when do we have to raise the money by?" he asked instead, relieved when his voice came out sounding as brisk and professional as he had been aiming for. "What's the last possible day that we can still be collecting?"

Mr. Patrickson looked almost sheepish. "In the interest of the zoo, I _do_ have to keep searching for an alternative home for Rafiki," he admitted, looking briefly at Dylan, who nodded, before turning back to Kurt. "I don't want to undermine what you're doing—and it's not because of your age, either; I'd do the same thing if you were an adult—but I have to operate in a manner that covers all possible contingencies.

"You'll have at least until mid-August," he promised, "that's the very earliest we could possibly sign paperwork with another zoo. If I have a tentative offer, but it looks as though you're going to make it, I _will _see if I can stall the negotiations a little."

Kurt nodded evenly—weirdly, Mr. Patrickson's explanation made him feel as though he were back in Carmel's music office, being told by Shelby that his solo was excellent, but wouldn't be going to Regionals for reasons beyond his control. But semi-rejection was a sensation he knew how to handle. "I understand," he replied smoothly, nodding a second time. "I recognize that I'm asking a lot, with all of this. I appreciate you taking the time to help me, and you should absolutely pursue any other avenues that you need to."

Three sets of eyebrows went up as all three adults in the room stared at Kurt, yet again.

Desra was the first to recover. "So, are you some kind of budding animal activist, or do you need an extra credit project for school?" she wondered out loud, leaning forward in her chair and resting her elbows on the desk.

Kurt smiled weakly. "Neither," he admitted. "I'm just…"

He paused, thinking about Blaine. About his dad. "Let's just say I'm reshuffling my priorities," he concluded wryly, making eye contact with Desra, who looked amused by his assessment.

"Well," she offered, straightening a photograph next to her computer, the subjects of which were two young children with her straight blonde hair, "if you do pull this off, I'd be surprised. But I'm rooting for you."

She smiled at Kurt, blue eyes calculating. "Be here tomorrow with another latte and a notebook," she instructed. "We've got a lot of work to do."

* * *

><p>"<em>I've been trying to write you a letter," Blaine confessed, his voice quiet and warm, if somewhat troubled. "Or—I don't know if it's for you as much as it's for me, to gather my thoughts."<em>

_Kurt hummed in understanding. "What does it say?" he asked, shifting the phone to his left hand and stretching out on his bed with a glance at the clock—11:57pm. _

_Blaine sighed. "Not much," he admitted. "Every time I try to work on it, I just…" He trailed off, inhaling audibly._

_Kurt waited silently._

_Finally, Blaine sighed again. "When I think about your dad," he said tentatively, "the way I let Jesse chase me away so easily, and didn't even—I can't even think about it long enough to figure out how to apologize for something that big. I've never been more ashamed of myself about anything, Kurt."_

_Kurt closed his eyes, breathing slowly._

"_I can't ever make something like that up to you," Blaine was saying. "Sometimes I'm amazed that you're even talking to me after that."_

_Kurt's throat began to tighten, and he swallowed harshly. "I didn't want to believe that you would do that," he admitted quietly, feeling the familiar sting of unshed tears forming behind his eyelids. "It was just so unlike you. And I know that you had your own issues going on at the time, and I understand that, but it hurt so _much _when you weren't there."_

"_I know," Blaine acknowledged sadly. "I know, and I'm so sorry, even if it doesn't make it right. Do you—"_

_He paused. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked in a small voice. "Everything with your dad, and after? You don't have to, obviously, but if you want to…I'll listen."_

_Kurt thought about it, chest continuing to rise and fall with each deep, calming breath he took. When the answer came, it was a surprise to them both: "I do. Want to talk about it."_

_Blaine let out a harsh exhale, but whether it was a sigh of relief or trepidation, Kurt didn't know. _

"_Okay," Blaine said hoarsely. "Okay. Whenever you're ready."_

_Kurt took one final, deep breath. And began to speak._

* * *

><p>The first person that Kurt told about his impulsive commitment to raising $11,000 for the zoo was Burt, who called him "insane" and suggested the need for a professional intervention, but nonetheless agreed to help Kurt in his endeavor in whatever way Kurt needed him to.<p>

The second was someone whom Kurt wasn't entirely sure wouldn't slam the door in his face.

Still, a few hours after his second meeting with Desra—his notebook already filled with ten pages of hastily scribbled advice, leaving him with both a better idea of how to ask people for money and cramps in his hand—Kurt found himself standing on an unfamiliar porch in an unfamiliar but well-maintained neighborhood, ringing an ornate doorbell and waiting apprehensively, hand twining into the strap of his bag unconsciously. A minute passed, and then he heard the faint sound of light footsteps bounding down the stairs toward him. Kurt took a deep breath and braced himself.

The door opened, and Rachel Berry's beamingly inquisitive face melted into a frown when she saw who her visitor was.

Kurt tried his hardest not to take it personally.

Rachel crossed her arms over her chest. "If you're here because Jesse sent you, you can leave immediately," she said crossly, glowering at him. "And you can tell him that if he's sorry for the appalling manner in which he treated me, both overtly in the week leading up to Regionals and more subtly by manipulating me over the course of our relationship as part of a thoughtless ploy orchestrated by my mother, he can very well come here and say it himself. And that if he's looking for any personal items that he may have left in my possession at any point during our brief but torrid romance, that he's wasting his time; they were incinerated in a traditional Ex-Boyfriend Purging Bonfire in the backyard, a la every movie featuring Misguided Teenage Romance since 1985. And that—"

"Jesse didn't send me," Kurt interrupted quickly, before Rachel could add any more messages to pass along. "I came on my own."

Rachel deflated slightly. "Oh," she said, sounding a little disappointed, before straightening back up and scowling again. "Well then, in that case I should inform you that I'm not particularly happy to see _you _either, as Jesse's best friend and confidante, and that unless you have an excellent reason for being here—'excellent' to be determined by my standards and not yours—I'll be returning to my karaoke practice, and you may stay out here and reflect on your behavior on your own."

Kurt sighed. "Rachel, I want you to know how sorry I am about everything that happened between you and Jesse," he said truthfully. "For what it's worth, I always encouraged him to treat you better than he did, and if I had known about the…egg…thing,"—Rachel glared dangerously, and Kurt unconsciously took a step backward—"I would have stopped him, or warned you. As it is, we had a huge fight later on, about the way that he acts toward people, and I think he's starting to understand how wrong he was, with respect to you."

Rachel's stance relaxed slightly, but she didn't appear entirely convinced. "While I appreciate you coming here to throw yourself at my feet in contrition," she admitted, and Kurt fought the instinct that made him want to roll his eyes, "The Incident Of Which We Do Not Speak happened weeks ago. If you were truly sorry, why didn't you say anything at Regionals, in front of your teammates, instead of coming here now, and in secrecy?"

Kurt looked down at his shoes. "I wasn't at Regionals," he explained. "The week that the—that everything with Jesse happened," he corrected, avoiding a second specific mention of the egg incident, "I had a huge fight with my boyfriend, and then my dad had a heart attack that nearly killed him. I didn't come back to school until days after the competition, and I didn't hear about what Jesse did to you until way after that." He shrugged sadly, meeting her eyes. "By the time I did, I didn't think that you'd want to talk to me," he added honestly.

Rachel's intense gaze softened. "I'm sorry to hear about your dad," she offered. "As you know, I have Two Gay Dads, and I know how devastated I'd be if anything happened to them. What song did you pick to express your deep inner agony?"

Kurt was briefly confused, until he remembered Jesse mentioning how McKinley's show choir, the New Directions, had a strange tendency to sing their feelings whenever possible. "I didn't sing at all," he explained. "Everything was too overwhelming at the time."

Rachel stared at him. "I suppose, that under those circumstances, your delay in apologizing is understandable," she allowed solemnly, clearly shaken by his admission that he'd been too upset to sing. "I accept."

She stuck out her hand, and Kurt shook it.

Glancing behind her inside the house, Rachel smiled at Kurt. "I really do have to get back to practicing," she told him. "If you promise not to hold me back vocally, we have a second microphone."

Kurt smiled back. "I'd love to sing with you," he agreed, only exaggerating a little: he hadn't had the chance to sing with anyone else since Nationals, and from what he remembered, Rachel _did _have an excellent voice—and with his first voice lesson coming up with Kenneth McClaren, he could definitely use the practice. "Before we do, though, I was hoping that I could ask for your help with a special project."

Rachel eyed him sharply. "What kind of project?" she asked warily. "Because if it has anything to do with Vocal Adrenaline—"

"It doesn't," Kurt assured her quickly, before she could get going again. "Well, I mean, it might, but _you _wouldn't have to have anything to do with them. It's for Blaine—do you remember meeting him at the Winter Ball?"

Rachel nodded, immediately relaxing. "Your boyfriend," she confirmed, lighting up. "He was very polite and handsome. My Dads would love him."

Kurt smiled faintly. "Right," he said hollowly. "Well, I'm doing this project for him, and to save the home of a baby animal that might be torn away from his family if we don't raise enough money, and I thought that since you and Blaine got along, and since you must like animals, being a vegan, you might be willing to help."

Tilting her head to the side, Rachel tapped her foot for a few seconds, thinking, and then extended her hand. "Show me your book bag," she demanded suddenly.

Kurt's hand grabbed the strap of his bag instinctively. "Why?" he wanted to know, shifting slightly on his feet.

Rachel sighed impatiently. "I need assurance of your good intentions," she explained, using a tone of voice that implied how obvious she considered her actions to be. "If there are any foodstuffs in there that you intend to throw at me, I'd like to find out now, rather than inside, where I'd have to shampoo the carpets if my trust in you turns out to be misplaced."

Impressed by her paranoia, Kurt handed over his book bag.

Searching it and apparently satisfied with the lack of eggs or dairy products that it contained, Rachel nodded approvingly, and invited Kurt inside.

* * *

><p><em>One post it note toward the middle of the notebook was covered in a giant frowny face. Frowning back at it, Kurt peeled it off of the page and turned it over.<em>

_Today was a bad day, _a scribbled message on the back read. _Depression is awful. I wish you were here, but I don't know what I'd say or do if you were. _

* * *

><p>Rachel Berry, as it turned out, was among the most obnoxious, goal-oriented, tunnel-visioned people that Kurt had ever met. Which meant that, at least for fundraising purposes, she was perfect.<p>

Within an hour of Kurt's arrival that afternoon, Rachel made several phone calls—consisting almost entirely of fast-paced shouting on her end—before turning to Kurt and announcing with a winning smile that she had spoken with her Glee club, and had arranged both a bake sale and a public concert to help support the Save Our Lion Fundraising Campaign.

"Noah is an excellent baker," she assured Kurt, beaming. "I don't know what his secret ingredient is, but his special cupcakes netted several hundreds of dollars in profits at our last fundraising bake sale, with several of our customers coming back for fifth helpings."

Tactfully deciding not to enlighten Rachel about the usual 'secret ingredient' in 'special' baked anything, Kurt smiled back. "And the concert?" he asked, impressed by the speed at which she had managed to get everything started.

Rachel's grin faltered. "Those are somewhat less successful," she admitted unhappily. "Oftentimes, most of the money we raise at those is from people paying us to go away."

She bristled. "Obviously, the people in this town simply aren't ready to embrace such a breathtaking display of talent," she added. "Until then, I consider it excellent practice for the future, when I may have to occasionally adapt my performances in the face of an unresponsive audience. Still, every dollar helps."

Kurt couldn't disagree with that.

* * *

><p>Rachel proved to be even more resourceful over the following weeks. While Kurt contacted Carmel's Student Council (who agreed immediately to solicit local businesses for donations andor items to auction off on eBay or to give away to extra-generous donors) and Environmental Club (who traded their assistance contacting newspapers and animal rights groups in exchange for Kurt's solemn oath to replace the lightbulbs in Carmel's auditorium with the energy-efficient variety), Rachel worked on her Two Gay Dads until they agreed to use their famous ACLU connections to help. Eleven days after Kurt first had his meeting with Desra, Dylan, and Mr. Patrickson, a letter of support and a $250 check arrived from the regional chapter of the ACLU, accompanied by a handwritten note detailing several other organizations that the Berry's might successfully petition for the same.

The New Directions, as Rachel had predicted, had much more success with their bake sale than with their concert. They weren't the only ones to make a similar effort, however: using the contact information that Blaine's friend Wes had given him, Kurt had gotten in touch with the newest Head of the Warbler Council, and had petitioned for their help as well. Wes had solemnly sworn his assistance and secrecy—"If Warbler Blaine asks, of course, we won't deny our participation, but The Council has agreed to respect your wishes and keep your involvement under wraps for the time being. Even if we don't understand why you'd want to deny your valuable contribution."—and the Dalton Academy Warblers performed their own vocal fundraisers in Westerville's two shopping malls during the second week of July, enchanting listeners with their matching summer-weight uniforms and prep school charm.

And after an appeal to Shelby, who subsequently mentioned in a Vocal Adrenaline-wide email that anyone who participated in an informal concert at the zoo itself would receive ten hours of community service credit from the music department, nearly the entire championship-winning team showed up to lend their support to the cause, including a handful of the newly-graduated seniors. At the front of the group was Jesse, with the largest donation of the day: a $1,000 check from the St. James family.

"Angela loves lions," he explained casually to an incredulous Kurt as he handed over the slip of paper. "And my parents recently discovered that my brother's been using the rent money that they've been sending him to fund his burgeoning marijuana distribution business, so they had some extra cash on hand to give away this month."

An hour after the successful concert ended—and the rest of the team had either gone home or to visit the aquatic exhibits—Kurt took a second look at the check.

It was filled out in Jesse's handwriting.

* * *

><p>"<em>How are things going between you and that Blaine kid?" Kurt's dad asked him over the business section of the paper one morning. "You guys doing better yet, or are we still awkwardly avoiding the subject?"<em>

_Kurt, who had been staring at his granola parfait in the vain hope that it would transport itself magically into his stomach, grimaced at the question. "Things are better," he admitted, poking the concoction with a spoon. "Mostly. We're trying to work out all of our issues, and…"_

_He paused, sighing. "I think it's working," he concluded. "I _want _it to be working, and I'm pretty sure he does too, but…it's complicated, I guess. Sometimes wanting something isn't quite enough."_

_Burt snorted. "Kid, your _existence _is complicated. If you want something, you go after it as hard as you can and hope like hell that it works out, end of story. Don't make excuses in order to avoid putting in the effort."_

_Kurt couldn't stop himself from smiling at his dad's passion on the subject, especially compared with his and Blaine's inauspicious first meeting. "I won't, Dad," he assured Burt. "I promise."_

_Burt grunted. "Good," he replied. Picking up his empty plate and coffee mug, he got up from the table and deposited the dishes into the sink. He nodded at Kurt's bowl. "Promise you'll eat that, too. You've got too much going on right now, even without skipping meals. Work, rehearsal, this crazy zoo project…"_

"_Don't forget voice lessons," Kurt added gloomily, resting his head on the table. "I have my first one tomorrow."_

_His dad ruffled his hair. "Quit worrying, Buddy," he told Kurt for the dozenth time. "You're going to knock his socks off, and we both know it. And if you don't, I'll buy him a hearing aid."_

_Kurt smiled weakly as Burt left the room. Sighing audibly, and wanting nothing more than to go back to bed, he picked up his spoon._

* * *

><p>Three weeks into the fundraiser, Kurt, Rachel, and their small group of conscripted helpers were doing far better than anyone could have possibly predicted. Donations had hit $6,537 before they began tapering off, but a full color spread in <em>The Lima Gazette—<em>the Environmental Club had come through, and Kurt spent two days screwing in lightbulbs—had spread the word and stirred up additional interest from people who hadn't heard about their efforts, and a fresh spate of contributions had come pouring in. Although raising the necessary funding by August 20th (the tentative date that Mr. Patrickson had eventually given him) certainly wasn't guaranteed, Kurt was feeling better about their chances of success than ever.

There was still one phone call that he needed to make, however.

Though he and Blaine had talked over the phone a handful of times since Kurt had begun organizing the fundraiser—most recently on Blaine's birthday, two days before—Kurt had avoided mentioning anything about Rafiki's potential fate to him, not wanting to upset Blaine while he was so far away and unable to do anything about it. With the deadline beginning to creep closer, however, Kurt's unease over his self-enforced silence grew until finally, with extreme trepidation, he locked himself into his room one afternoon and dialed Blaine's number.

Blaine, who was at the grocery store with his Grandma, sounded happily surprised to hear from him. "I was going to call you tonight, to thank you for my birthday present," he told Kurt, talking louder than usual in order to be heard over the crowds in the shop. "It's too hot to wear it now, but I had it on at the house, since we had the air conditioning running—it's gorgeous, Kurt."

Strapped for time, Kurt had sent him a beautifully crafted jacket that he'd found while bargain hunting online, with the promise to tailor it to Blaine's precise measurements once he was back in Ohio.

The card that he had started to draw for him remained unfinished.

"I'm sorry it got there late," Kurt apologized. "I wasn't sure how long it would take to get over the border through the mail, and I must have underestimated the travel time by a couple of days."

Kurt could hear the smile in Blaine's voice as he assured Kurt that it didn't matter in the slightest. "I love it, and it fits really well even without any adjustments," he added. "Oh—hang on a second, Kurt."

Kurt curled up in his desk chair, drained beyond all belief, while Blaine plucked items from the top shelves for his Grandma, and then hefted a large bag of cat food into their cart. _He sounds so happy right now, _he mused sadly. _And I don't want to be the one to ruin it._

"Sorry," Blaine breathed into the phone after a minute. "This is probably the only time I ever get to be the tall one, so I tend to savor it." He paused. "Is everything all right?" he wanted to know. "Not that I don't—it's just that you're usually so busy during the day, so I wasn't expecting to hear from you."

Kurt wanted to lie, more than anything.

"Actually…there's something that I think you should know," he said instead. "It's about Rafiki."

Blaine was quiet while Kurt told him the whole story—his own involvement excluded. "There's a fundraiser going on to try and collect the money that the zoo would need to keep him for another year or so, but obviously nothing's guaranteed," he did say. "I didn't want to tell you at first, because I know how much the lions mean to you, but…the biggest mistakes I've made with you have been when I've tried to protect you from things that I was afraid would upset you, instead of supporting you while you handled them on your own."

He bit his lip until it began to sting. "I'm sorry that this is happening, and I'm sorry that I'm hurting you by telling you," he confessed. "But I can't keep making the same mistakes, not if I want to earn your trust back. I'm so sorry, Blaine."

Blaine was silent for a painfully long moment.

Finally, Kurt heard him sniff. "Don't be sorry," he said quietly, and Kurt pressed the phone closer to his ear in order to hear him better. "I'm glad that—I'm glad you called."

Kurt blinked rapidly, his eyes suddenly damp.

Blaine cleared his throat. "The fundraiser," he asked, and Kurt's muscles tightened, "are you going to help? Will you—for me, since I can't…"

He trailed off, and Kurt nodded. "Of course," he promised. "I'll help enough for both of us, I swear."

Blaine sighed. "Thank you," he offered softly. "That means a lot."

There was a pause, and Kurt could hear Blaine filling his Grandma in on the situation in the background. After a few minutes, Blaine came back. "Kurt, Grandma wants to talk to you, if that's all right," he explained, a hint of apology in his voice. "Is that—"

"Of course," Kurt repeated, interrupting. "Put her on."

There was a brief scuffling noise as Blaine passed the phone. "Kurt?" Blaine's Grandma asked, her voice light and tinny over the line.

Kurt smiled, even though she couldn't see him. "Hi Mrs. Anderson," he replied, in a slightly louder voice than he'd been using. "How are you?"

Blaine's Grandma sighed affectedly. "I was doing wonderfully, thank you, until your zoo broke my favorite grandson's heart," she told him ruefully. "But aren't you a sweetheart for asking. Do me a favor, won't you?"

Kurt's smile grew—Blaine's Grandma was his favorite elderly person ever. "Anything, Mrs. Anderson. What can I do for you?"

"That's what I like to hear," Blaine's Grandma answered approvingly. "Be a dear, and find out who I should make a check out to? I know my money is in Canadian currency, but it'll still buy that little lion cub a few good meals."

* * *

><p>By the end of the following week, the Save Our Lion Fundraising Campaign (though it wasn't technically official, Rachel's name had stuck) had raised over $9,000, but donations were beginning to dry up.<p>

"Don't beat yourself up," Desra lectured Kurt sternly, when she reported the most recent figures to him and saw the glum expression on his face. "You've taken on a lot of work for a kid your age, and I don't mind telling you that you've done a hell of a lot better than a lot of us expected you to."

Kurt smiled wryly in spite of himself. "I'm starting to lose track of how often people tell me something along those lines," he admitted, thinking of the number of times that Shelby, his father, and even Blaine had ordered him not to be so hard on himself.

Desra shrugged. "Well, they can't all be wrong," she pointed out lightly. "Now. Is there anyone else that you can ask to contribute that you haven't talked to already?"

Kurt sighed. "I can't ask anyone else for more money," he replied, kicking at the ground with his left foot. "Everyone has already given so much. Maybe if I dipped into my savings—"

"Stop that sentence," Desra ordered, cutting him off abruptly. "You gave $50 and a huge chunk of your summer, and that's enough. Save the rest of your money for business school."

She sighed, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "There have to be a few adults in your life that you haven't personally talked to," she reiterated. "And my advice is to figure out who they are, because even if a few more of those organizations that your extremely peppy little girlfriend wrote to end up coming through, it's going to be close, Kurt. Email your school, talk to your friends' parents, get your friends to talk to _their_ friends' parents; we're in the home stretch, now."

* * *

><p>When Kurt got back to his car, parked in its increasingly familiar spot in the zoo parking lot, he started the engine and glanced at the clock on the dashboard—11:26am.<p>

Which only left him half an hour to eat lunch, change into his dance clothes, and drive out to Carmel for VA training camp. _Great. _

Sighing, Kurt quickly sent Wes a text, asking if he knew of anyone on the faculty at Dalton who would be willing to send out a school-wide email asking for help. Although several of the boys who attended the Academy had partial scholarships that helped pay their tuition, many of the other students came from families that were loaded—or were at least modestly wealthy, like Blaine's parents.

Kurt stopped short.

Blaine's parents. He'd been so concerned about Blaine that it had never occurred to him to tell Blaine's parents about the fundraiser. Which, given Blaine's connection to the lions and memberships in Vocal Adrenaline and the Warblers, both of whom had contributed their time and talents to the cause, was a pretty massive oversight on his part.

Kurt glanced at the clock again—11:28—and put the car into reverse.

Visiting the Andersons would have to wait until after rehearsal.

* * *

><p>By the time Kurt reached Blaine's house, however, it was nearly 5:30—he and the other rising juniors had spent over three straight hours teaching the incoming freshmen how to do double pirouettes, and it was a sweaty job as well as a thankless one. Kurt had gratefully taken advantage of the freshly-cleaned locker room by the school gym, and then had stopped at the Lima Bean for an extra-large mocha before making the drive out to the Andersons' house.<p>

And maybe it was the effect of so much caffeine on his overworked muscles and empty stomach, but Kurt felt his nerves growing inexplicably as he walked up the path to Blaine's front porch and climbed up the steps, and was surprised to find, when he reached out to ring the doorbell, that his hands were shaking. Fighting the impulse to run back to his car and drive away before someone answered the door, Kurt planted his feet solidly on the porch and waited.

_Blaine would do this for you, _he reminded himself sternly. _You will do this for him. _

Kurt heard a scraping sound as the deadbolt turned, and Mrs. Anderson opened the door.

A head shorter than Kurt without her usual high-heeled shoes, she looked up at him curiously. "Kurt," she said politely, clutching the door frame. "What a nice surprise; I wasn't expecting to see you—Blaine should have told me that you were coming."

Chastised, Kurt grimaced. "I'm sorry, I didn't think to call ahead," he said apologetically. "I can come back at a more convenient time."

Mrs. Anderson's meticulously arched eyebrows shot up. "Oh no, I didn't mean to imply—of course you're welcome here," she stammered, her nervous tone matching Kurt's. "Please, come in." She stepped back and gestured for Kurt to follow her inside, and Kurt obeyed.

"Can I get you something to drink?" she asked, as Kurt stepped out of his sandals and followed her down the hall to the kitchen.

Kurt smiled. "Actually, would you mind if I had a glass of water?" he requested. "I just came from rehearsal, so…"

Mrs. Anderson reached into the cabinet before Kurt could even finish his sentence, pulling out two glasses and handing them to him. "I just sliced some lemon into a fresh pitcher," she told him with a small smile. "Have a seat; I'll grab it."

Once again, Kurt complied meekly, sitting on one of the stools at the counter and holding the glasses still for Blaine's mother as she filled them with lemon water and left the heavy frosted pitcher between them on the marble countertop.

"So," she said to Kurt with a slight sigh, once she had taken her seat, "Blaine's Grandmother tells me that you're helping out with the fundraiser that's been going on at the zoo." Reaching into her purse, which had been sitting an arms-length away on the counter, she pulled out a slip of paper and passed it to Kurt.

"My husband and I would like to contribute," she told him, "if you'd take a personal check."

Kurt glanced automatically at the paper. And choked.

Mrs. Anderson had given him $500.

"I'm sorry," he managed to sputter once he'd finished coughing, Mrs. Anderson's hand on his back. "I just—first of all, thank you so much; this is so incredibly generous of you. But how did you know that I was—_I _didn't even know that I was coming here until today."

Mrs. Anderson ignored his stammering, studying him carefully for a minute. Finally, she looked away from Kurt. "I don't know if Blaine's ever told you about my work," she said quietly, tracing a ring of condensation left on the countertop by her glass. "My company examines business documents—financial, internal, contracts, and so on—for discrepancies. One of the first things that I noticed when I read the _Gazette _article about the fundraiser was how far out of their way everyone involved went to avoid naming the local student who put the entire effort together." Her smile was brittle. "If Blaine was here, I might have thought that it was him," she admitted, "especially when I read that all of those show choirs had gotten involved. But then Blaine's Grandma called and told me how upset Blaine was about the whole situation, and that she had sent you a check to bring to the zoo, since you were helping with the fundraiser. And I knew that it was you."

She looked up at Kurt, and he was shocked to see that her eyes were damp with unshed tears.

"When we were in Niagara Falls, Blaine told us that the two of you…have feelings for each other," she explained, dabbing at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. "You put this together for him, didn't you? And you didn't tell him that it was you because you didn't want him to feel like he owed you anything."

Kurt's mouth was dry.

Blaine had finally told his parents about them, even if he hadn't mentioned it to Kurt.

"It's true," he confessed, so quietly that he was nearly whispering. "It's true. I love your son, Mrs. Anderson."

Blaine's mother closed her eyes, nodding even as she paled slightly. "And…you know what happened to him at his last school," she confirmed evenly. "Not Carmel, but Aquinas."

Kurt nodded back. "I do now," he told her. "He didn't say anything about it to me for a long time, but I know now."

Mrs. Anderson let out a humorless laugh, tracing her fingers over the counter again. "I suppose that I should be glad that I'm not the only one he doesn't share everything with," she admitted, swallowing. "But I wish he would have told us sooner, even if I know why he didn't."

Kurt watched silently as her eyes flooded with tears again, at a loss for words.

"I just wanted to protect him," Mrs. Anderson explained, choking up. "I didn't want him to be hurt again. He's my little boy, and…" She hid her face in her hands, beginning to sob.

Kurt, trying not to panic, grabbed a box of tissues off of a nearby table and carefully handed one to Blaine's mother. As she wiped her face, still crying, Kurt took her hand, squeezing it gently in what he hoped was a comforting manner.

Mrs. Anderson squeezed back, holding onto Kurt like a lifeline.

Finally, Mrs. Anderson's tears slowed, her shuddering breaths beginning to even out. "I'm sorry," she apologized weakly, giving Kurt his bloodless hand back. "I didn't mean to fall apart like that."

Kurt shook his hand out underneath the counter, out of her sight. "Don't be sorry," he said earnestly, dipping his head slightly to meet her eyes. "He's your son; don't be sorry."

* * *

><p>When Mrs. Anderson walked Kurt to the front door ten minutes later, her check tucked safely in his pocket, she took a moment to reach up and squeeze his shoulder gently.<p>

"You're a very nice boy, Kurt," she told him, her voice still somewhat shaky. "I'm not…I'm still not crazy about the idea of Blaine having a boyfriend, because of what those monsters did to him last year."

Kurt looked down at the ground sadly, nodding.

Mrs. Anderson lifted his chin back up with her fingers. "For what it's worth, though," she added, gazing at him seriously, "If Blaine was going to—I know that you two aren't…together, right now."

She smiled sadly at him. "What I'm trying to say," she said more firmly, "is that I'd want it to be you. If Blaine was going to be with anyone, I'd want it to be you."


	32. Chapter 32

32/33—so close. And yet.

We're nearing the end! Review responses are going to be another couple of days (sorry!) because I'm out of the country right now, and don't have much computer time. One response that I will make now, and publically, because it seems that a couple of people need to hear it: I will never, ever delete a review, positive or negative, because everyone's entitled to their opinion. But there is constructive criticism and there's bullying, and if you won't own up to your own vitriol by signing your name, don't come looking to me for validation. Frankly, typing this paragraph is more time than I have to spend on this topic as it is.

And, forward:

* * *

><p>Kenneth McClaren's studio was hidden away on a tree-lined road in Bellefontaine, and only Kurt's slavish dedication to his GPS had kept him from missing it the first time. By his third lesson, he knew to make a left turn between the two street-side Blue Ash trees in order to avoid overshooting the small parking lot, and having to turn around at the cul-de-sac at the end of the road.<p>

Even three lessons in, however, he still wasn't used to the sheer quantity of water coolers crammed into the small studio: ten giant blue containers spread throughout the four-room, one story building.

"Let me show you where the restroom is, first thing," Kenneth had greeted him on his first day, after Kurt had introduced himself. "I guarantee you'll be visiting it with some frequency."

And he wasn't wrong—halfway into his seventy-five minute session, Kurt was sculling his third cup of water with lemon, while Kenneth looked on approvingly. "Good," he praised, as Kurt finished drinking and set the cup down on a nearby shelf with the rest of his things. "How did that last set feel?"

Kurt swallowed, testing his throat. "A little weird," he admitted. "It didn't _sound _shaky to me, necessarily, but it didn't feel as solid as it should have—I _know _I've sung high F's before."

Kenneth nodded knowingly. "Not in quite a while, though, correct?" he wanted to know, refilling his own cup of water from the cooler directly next to the piano and taking a sip. Like Sarita Jackson, Kenneth had aged well, his sharp blue eyes and unwrinkled, tan skin belying his sixty-something years—although unlike Sarita, he'd allowed his thick hair to go completely gray.

Now, those eyes were trained contemplatively on Kurt's throat. "From the sound of it, I'd say it's been at least three or four months, if not longer," he judged evenly.

Kurt thought about it. "You're right," he admitted, impressed. "The highest note I had in Vocal Adrenaline last term was a D#, and I don't think I went any higher than that in my Evaluations."

Kenneth nodded again. "You know you're capable of it, but your vocal cords are relearning the notes; stretching to reach them," he explained. "Don't push them too quickly, or you'll damage something, understand? We'll build back up to an F—there's no reason you need to be hitting it this week. Better safe than in surgery."

* * *

><p>Kurt and Kenneth spent the rest of his lesson working on Kurt's lower range and diction, with a necessary bathroom break after Kurt's sixth cup of water.<p>

"So, how's that teacher of yours doing?" Kenneth wondered out loud after they'd finished for the day, Kurt packing up his things. "She must be moving any day now."

"Friday," Kurt confirmed with a sad frown. "She and Beth came to the zoo when Vocal Adrenaline was singing our fundraising concert, to say goodbye to everyone." Beth had been awake that day, and Kurt had briefly gotten the chance to hold her before one of the girls had snatched her away from him, cooing over her tiny little fingernails.

Shelby had hugged him hard, and Kurt had barely managed to hold back tears as she'd tugged the back of his hair affectionately, making him promise to write. "I mean it, Kurt Hummel_,_" she'd told him sternly, her warm hand on his cheek softening the order. _"_If this is the last that I hear from you, I'll be extremely disappointed. Don't let me down."

"She did a good job with you," Kenneth confirmed, interrupting Kurt's thoughts. "Gave you a good, strong base to work with. I know Sarita was pleased to hear it; so often it's the fringe vocal parts—countertenors, very low second altos, etc.—that end up neglected and underdeveloped."

Kurt closed his bag. "I do feel bad that I couldn't make The Academy work this summer," he admitted, slinging it over his shoulder. "But I'm so grateful that she put us in touch and asked you to give me a chance—I feel like I'm learning so much already. And especially with Shelby being gone…"

Although Kurt hadn't meant to imply anything other than his gratitude, Kenneth narrowed his eyes slightly. "Who did you say that the new coach at Carmel was, now that Shelby's out?" he asked.

Kurt twisted his mouth. "I didn't say, I don't think," he realized, thinking back. "But his name is Dustin Goolsby."

Kurt saw a spark of recognition in Kenneth's eyes. "Dustin Goolsby," Kenneth repeated slowly, contemplatively. "Interesting. And do you like him?"

Kurt hesitated. If there was a polite way to say 'Honestly, no; he reminds me of the Exceptionally Handsome Love Child of Dakota Stanley and Jesse St. James', he couldn't think of what it was.

Kenneth watched him perceptively. "I'll tell you this, Kurt, because it's rare that Shelby and Sarita manage to work past their professional rivalry to go to bat for the same student, and because from what I've seen of you so far, you don't seem like the type to let your ego get the best of you if I tell you that your teachers are only human, like you," he offered frankly, getting up from the piano bench and looking out the window at the overcast summer sky. "Dustin Goolsby knows how to coax results out of a choir collectively, he does. But he's not as smart as he thinks he is, and he doesn't always have the best interests of his individual singers in mind. And his pettiness is something of a legend, at times."

Looking back at Kurt, he frowned seriously. "Don't poke a sleeping dragon in the eye," he warned Kurt, "but if he tries to get you to do something that doesn't sound right to you, or that Shelby or I have specifically told you _not _to do…take his orders with a heavy grain of salt. There are more important things in this world than Show Choir, and the long-term health of your voice is one of them."

* * *

><p>By the end of the following week, Kurt had had five voice lessons with Kenneth McClaren, and six Vocal Adrenaline rehearsals with Dustin Gooslby as the primary, then only, director.<p>

He was definitely certain which one he preferred.

"Your good looks and your talent are the only two advantages you've got going for you," Dustin declared one afternoon as he surveyed the room, after arbitrarily deciding that any student who had eaten carbs that day would be spending the remaining two hours of Boot Camp doing crunches on the auditorium floor. "I would know; those are my only positive attributes as well. Come into rehearsals looking puffy, and you've voluntarily weakened your lead over your competitors."

Kurt, who had mercifully made omelets for breakfast that morning, watched Dustin with a carefully blank expression.

Dustin fiddled with the Bluetooth he wore everywhere, before rounding on the remaining two-thirds of the choir. "The rest of you, split into three groups," he ordered, folding his arms over his chest and watching intensely as Vocal Adrenaline scrambled to obey. "I'll be judging all of the choreography you worked on yesterday using secret criteria that only I know about, just like a real judge. The losing group will be washing my car after rehearsal, so feel free to sabotage the other teams."

He smiled, his admittedly-handsome face growing even handsomer. "The winners will be driving two counties east to Cayuga High School, to deliver this pre-written hate mail that I printed off of the internet," he continued, holding up a thick sheaf of paper that Kurt hadn't noticed that he was carrying. "Their show choir was the only other team within 200 miles to rank in the Top 10 at Nationals this year, and we're going to break their spirits early. They should be extra-vulnerable to an attack right now; my sources tell me that their director just returned to school three days ago from maternity leave, so it shouldn't take much to send her back home in tears."

Kurt missed Shelby already.

* * *

><p>As the incoming funds collected by the Save Our Lion campaign slowed dramatically, and Kurt's understanding of the legalities that governed soliciting donations grew firmer, Kurt's contact with Desra and Mr. Patrickson went from twice-daily, semi-panicky phone calls to bi-weekly check-ins.<p>

Which was fine by Kurt, who was thoroughly tired of devoting hours upon hours every week to the cause that he had impulsively championed. Once the initial rush of organization and adrenaline had passed, keeping the community interested in what was happening at the zoo, or at least taking a leaf out of New Directions' book and simply annoying people enough that they'd write him a check in order to shut him up, had become infinitely more difficult. Also fairly trying was keeping all of the people he'd recruited to help him with the project on task:

The Warblers had held a charity bake sale in conjunction with their sister school after hearing about McKinley's results, but the meager $78 their efforts netted suggested that either the draw of the project had been less on baking and more on spending time with private school girls, or that they'd neglected to add Noah Puckerman's secret ingredient into their recipes. New Directions had managed to scam an additional $45 out of the father of one of their members by pretending to be affiliated with a Christian Animal Rights group, but the discrepancies between what Rachel reported collecting and the amount of money handed over to Kurt by the sharp-eyed, shark-smiled cheerleader who had perpetuated the scheme led Kurt to believe that a few bills had potentially been skimmed off of the top by someone. And Rachel herself caused Kurt to lose nearly three days of strategizing, in order to talk her out of writing and starring in her own ASPCA-like commercial—MySpace broadcast only—complete with captioned photos of sad-eyed animals and an exclusive, impassioned, Rachel Berry-cover of a Sarah McLachlan tearjerker as the background track.

Kurt knew that he was doing the right thing—for Rafiki, for Blaine, for the zoo staff, for his college transcripts—and that, as much as he just wanted it all to be _over, _if he had to choose all over again, he would have done the exact same thing.

Still, there were a number of dark moments where Kurt resentfully wondered why Blaine's parents couldn't have bought him a dog or a bird or a kitten that Blaine could have grown horribly attached to instead.

Kurt had originally intended to go straight home to practice for his next voice lesson after his meeting with Desra on Thursday afternoon. After walking out of the zoo offices, however ("Only $460 more to go, Kurt; that's barely a drop in a very expensive bucket, compared to what you've already raised"), Kurt's feet carried him down the path toward the lion exhibit on autopilot. By the time that his brain caught up with his body and realized that he was headed away from the parking lot, he was already within sight of the enclosure. With a tight, wavering sigh, Kurt kept walking instead of turning back. Maybe spending some time with the actual lions—rather than their fuzzy little photographed faces on all of the fliers and posters and promotional materials that Shelby had let him use the Camel copiers to make, immediately before handing in her faculty ID—would inspire him with some new ideas to raise the final chunk of money that they needed.

Or, at least, maybe watching the lions romp around or cuddled in a sleepy pile would be enough to remind Kurt that it was the stress of the project that he was growing to detest, not the animals themselves.

As it turned out, the lions were doing neither. Scattered around the outdoor enclosure, they didn't seem to be doing much of anything in particular, with the exception of the cub who was scratching herself on a tree trunk, much to the delight of a large group of kids who were watching.

Kurt smiled ruefully. Zoo traffic had picked up noticeably since the local newspapers had caught wind of Rafiki's potential fate and the fundraiser to try and stop it, and whole hoards of people who had probably never been to the Lima Park Zoo in their lives were suddenly packing the dirt paths, loudly exclaiming over all the "exotic wildlife"—the lions in particular.

_Lemmings_.

One of the lions was stretched out on an expanse of rock near Kurt's end of the exhibit, blinking lazily at the entire scene, and Kurt knelt down as close as he could get to her. "Hi, Mali," he greeted quietly, glancing around to make sure that nobody was watching him as he leaned into the fence. As usual, he wasn't 100% sure which lion he was dealing with—he knew all of their features, thanks to his Christmas gift to Blaine, but had somehow never really distinguished which cub was which in the process—but there was a one in three chance that he was right, in any case, and he doubted that the lion knew the difference anyway.

Kurt cleared his throat, voice hoarse from all of the singing he'd done in rehearsal that morning. "I really hope he gets fired," he grumbled, continuing that train of thought out loud. "Or that he and Dakota Stanley fill the room with so much hot air that all I have to do to get rid of them both is light a match."

Mali moved her head slightly, her tail thumping heavily against the ground. Kurt took it as a sign of encouragement. "It's just culture shock, I guess," he admitted, tugging absently at a blade of grass next to the fence. "Shelby and Kenneth and Sarita, they're all incredibly well known and respected in their fields, and even if I still don't think that what Shelby did with Rachel was right, she still taught me so much. Dustin hasn't taught us anything so far, except how to cope with the beginning stages of PTSD."

Kurt sighed wistfully. "And almost all of my friends are gone," he added, twisting his mouth into a deep frown. "Transferred or moved or graduated, and…I don't know. I don't know if there's anything left for me at Carmel, anymore. Not if I have to do it on my own."

It was the first time that Kurt had admitted any of it out loud, and the seriousness of what it might mean shocked him into silence for a few minutes.

Before Kurt had managed to change the subject—a distinct advantage to having a conversational partner that didn't speak—Kurt heard a semi-familiar voice call his name, and he turned his head to look. Dylan, decked out in his usual veterinarian-khaki, was walking up the path toward him.

"I heard the good news," he told Kurt with a smile. "We're in the final stretch, then, right?"

Kurt smiled back thinly. "Right," he agreed, standing up and brushing the dirt off of his pants. "Less than $500 to go."

Dylan's grin was far more enthusiastic. "Well, I think that you can do it, no problem," he promised, before continuing up the path toward the indoor part of the enclosure. "See you later, Kurt."

Kurt glanced back down at Mali. "Hey," he called after Dylan, suddenly remembering something he'd been wondering about for a while. "Do you ever let people pet the lions? I mean, is it safe?"

Dylan laughed. "No way," he answered emphatically. "These guys were born in captivity, sure, but they're still wild animals, and out insurance company would have a stroke if we allowed that."

Seeing the disappointed frown on Kurt's face, Dylan took a couple of steps back down the path toward him. "I'll tell you what, though," he told Kurt conspiratorially. "I was just on my way to go feed them. If you promise to listen to everything I say, no exceptions, I'll let you help."

Thinking several months back to the winter, when Blaine had surreptitiously tossed strips of bison meat to the then-little cubs, Kurt smiled.

* * *

><p>July had faded imperceptibly into August. Kurt's routine stayed the same—voice lessons, Vocal Adrenaline rehearsals with the increasingly-smarmy Dustin Goolsby, shifts at the garage, Tai Chi with Burt, and endless campaigning and strategizing (on his own or with Rachel Berry, who continued to be an ever-present source of quality vocal duets, frustration, and truly horrible baked goods) for the Save Our Lion campaign (the ironic initials of which had not gone unnoticed by Kurt; they needed to think of a new moniker, and fast).<p>

The one very noticeable difference was Blaine—or, rather, the lack thereof.

"We'll be back in six days," he promised Kurt on Thursday evening as he packed to leave for Montreal, his voice distant and crackling over the speakerphone. "I _might _get a chance to call from the hotel, but the long-distance fees are pretty awful, and I've never gotten reception on my cell phone in Quebec."

Kurt swallowed the lump in his throat. "No, it's fine," he replied, his effort at sounding 'breezy and nonchalant' falling utterly short of the mark and landing somewhere around 'pitchy and strained'. "I'm a little jealous, obviously, since my French is très magnifique and yours is terrible, but I'll make it through somehow. Have fun with your Grandma."

"That _is _what I get for taking Spanish," Blaine agreed soberly, and Kurt could hear the faint sound of him zipping up whichever bag or suitcase he'd doubtlessly been haphazardly tossing things into. "I'll send you a postcard, though? And maybe buy you something with a French label, so that you can show off your superior linguistic skills."

Kurt swiped at his suspiciously damp eyes before blinking rapidly. "Hmmm," he sniffed haughtily. "You'd better."

* * *

><p>After rehearsal on Friday, which Kurt had found mildly traumatizing—the work itself wasn't any worse than usual, but an overwrought sophomore who had yet to swallow the Goolsby Kool-Aid had burst into tears in the shower afterward and had clung to Kurt, desperate for comfort, before he had had the chance to dry off and change out of his towel—Kurt stopped at the store for a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of sparkling water, watching the clock with more than a little annoyance as he managed to hit almost every red light possible on the way home.<p>

Of all the times that he could have been behind schedule, it _had _to be the afternoon that he had a pan of lasagna to bake from scratch for his dad's quasi-date with Carole Hudson.

Although he had yet to meet Carole's giant son, Finn, Kurt already had some idea of what to expect when he tagged along with his mother to dinner that night, thanks to the mother of all coincidences: Rachel Berry had, somewhat recently, started dating him.

"I'm certain that our inevitable union would have occurred sooner," Rachel had informed a bewildered Kurt, when he'd seen the captioned yearbook photo of McKinley's show choir that Rachel had hung in her room and had made the connection to his father's potential new girlfriend, "but there were tragic and extenuating circumstances driving us apart, and it wasn't until Finn was freed from the shackles of potential teenage fatherhood that he felt free to pursue other options and to follow his heart. To me."

Kurt, avoiding that undoubtedly sordid tale with a ten-foot pole, had diverted the conversation to what Finn was like as a person, reading between the lines over the course of the following hour—Rachel was extremely passionate on the subject—that, while perhaps not the sharpest knife in the drawer, Finn was generally a decent guy who was good at sports, singing, and off-the-cuff inspirational speeches.

Cautiously optimistic—he did opt out of going to McKinley for a reason, after all—Kurt decided to reserve judgment until he had the chance to see for himself.

One Kurt had made it home from the store, the rest of the afternoon flew by in a flurry of preparations—cooking, tossing salad, rolling his eyes in despair when Burt came home not only later than usual, but wearing extra-greasy coveralls—and Kurt had just changed into a nicer shirt and was pulling the lasagna pan out of the oven when the doorbell rang.

Hands full, Kurt paused to listen just long enough to ensure that his dad was on his way down the stairs to let their guests in, then continued easing the pan onto the waiting stovetop. Snapping the oven off, Kurt opened the cutlery drawer and began grabbing forks; in his haste, he'd only managed to set half of the table.

Kurt had just placed the last knife by his own plate when a giant shadow appeared in the doorway—a hulking, vaguely familiar-looking boy about his age was lurking there, awkwardly clutching a bouquet of pink and white carnations.

"Um, hey," Finn Hudson greeted Kurt, waving halfheartedly. "Your dad said to bring these to you, and that you'd know where to put them?"

Kurt couldn't quite suppress his smile—the juxtaposition between the enormous teenager and the little, delicate flowers clutched in his oversized fist was a bit much.

"Sure," he answered, once he was sure that he wasn't going to laugh inappropriately and risk offending Carole's son. "I've got an extra vase around here somewhere." He held out his hand. "I'm Kurt, by the way."

Finn shook his hand docilely. "Finn," he replied, briefly holding out the flowers for Kurt to take, before seemingly changing his mind and pulling them back. "Uh, hang on," he stalled, furrowing his brow in concentration.

After a few seconds, his face lit up in recognition. "Thank you for having me in your home," he recited, suddenly more confident. "Rest assured that I come as an ally of the Gay community, with an open heart and mind, and that I bear you no ill will or harm. Also, I'm dating a charming young ingénue who happens to have Two Gay Dads, and I have personally witnessed the complete normality of what others would incorrectly portray as an alternative lifestyle, and wish you all the best in your formative years."

He thrust the flowers at a speechless Kurt, looking proud of himself.

After a few shocked seconds, Kurt closed his eyes. "I'm guessing Rachel told you to say all of that, didn't she?" he sighed, gently taking the flowers from Finn and opening the lower cabinet next to him where he stored the extra vases.

Finn's face fell slightly. "I had to memorize a notecard," he admitted. "There was another sentence about Human Brotherhood in Tarbulant Socio-something Times, but I kept messing it up, so she took it out."

Kurt shook his head, amused in spite of himself by Finn's earnestness. "You could have just said 'Thanks for having us'," he pointed out, walking over to the sink and filling the vase with water. "Despite Rachel's no-doubt best of intentions, she didn't have to write you a speech."

Finn leaned against the counter next to the sink, a small frown on his face. "She's usually good at knowing what to say when I don't, though," he protested, watching as Kurt peeled the plastic and tissue paper from the carnations and neatly trimmed the stems. "And I've never had dinner with a gay dude before, so…I don't know. I thought she could tell me what to do, since she's got Two Gay Dads and everything."

"So she'd said," Kurt countered dryly, shutting off the water and frowning back at Finn appraisingly:

He was easily a foot taller than Kurt, but despite his sheer physical bulk, he seemed more genuinely clueless and slightly uncomfortable than actively hostile, the way the bullies in middle school had been.

The same bullies that were now Finn's classmates. "Finn," Kurt asked warily, putting the flowers in the vase and arranging them tastefully, "how many gay people do you actually know? Besides the Berrys, I mean."

Finn's forehead wrinkled as he thought. "Uh, none?" he replied, looking at Kurt for confirmation. "I mean, there was this one teacher, but he got fired and now he, like, sells drugs and collects dolls and stuff." He scratched at the back of his neck. "There aren't any gay guys our age at school, though," he finished apologetically.

Kurt sighed. "I can almost guarantee you that that isn't true," he stated, delicately avoiding the painfully creepy description of Finn's teacher. "But that's not the point. All I want to know is, do you have a problem with me being gay? Because if you do, and our parents start seeing each other, I'd rather find out that you're uncomfortable with me now than at their wedding."

Finn's eyes bulged. "Wait, wedding?" he demanded in a hushed whisper, glancing at the doorway—as did Kurt, because seriously, what was taking his dad and Carole so long? "You think they're gonna get married?"

Kurt sighed again. "Not anytime soon," he promised sardonically. "Focus, Finn. Gay. Problem. Yes or no?"

Finn held up his hands defensively. "Dude, I don't—I mean, like I said, I don't really know any gay guys," he explained. "I guess it would be weird if one had a crush on me or whatever, but I don't, like, hate you or not want to have dinner here, just because you're not into girls or anything…"

He trailed off with a shrug, and Kurt nodded. "Okay," he agreed, a slight smile forming on his face. "I can work with that, for now."

* * *

><p>Over the following weeks, Kurt saw more of the Hudsons. Carole's work schedule prevented her from coming over for dinner more than a couple of times per week, though Kurt knew that his dad, who wasn't quite back to a full-time schedule at the garage, would occasionally take a couple of hours off during the day to meet her for lunch, or for a movie, or for some other socially sanctioned activity for the middle-aged and tragically-clothed. When Carole did make it over, however, she typically brought Finn along as well, citing her concern about his ability to feed himself in her absence.<p>

Kurt had assumed that she was exaggerating, until Burt mentioned over quinoa and roasted vegetables one night that the Federman family down the street had recently installed a hot tub in their backyard. Finn had turned red and quietly excused himself to use the bathroom, and Carole's whispered explanation vis-à-vis Finn's conception misconceptions forever put an end to Kurt giving Finn's intelligence the benefit of the doubt.

Although falling painfully short of Mensa-candidate standards, and perhaps not someone that Kurt would have sought out as a friend of his own accord, Kurt found that Finn's presence in his house bothered him less than he thought it would. Some nights, Kurt barely noticed that he was there—an astounding oversight, given Finn's general bulk—hunkered in front of the television with his dad, watching repetitive highlights on ESPN. Other nights, when Burt and Carole would watch sappy romantic comedies—which disinterested Finn, and which Kurt wouldn't watch with just the pair of them for all the couture in Milan—Finn was content to dig through Kurt's sheet music and compare notes on their show choirs.

"What was Nationals like?" Finn had asked him one night, and Kurt had edited all of his personal complications out of the trip to L.A. in order to give Finn the highlights—the competition itself, the other teams, the hotel they'd stayed at—

"Wait," Finn interrupted, forehead wrinkled in either concern or confusion. "You had to share a bed with another dude? Wasn't that—I mean…"

Kurt raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, and Finn struggled to explain. "I didn't mean it in a bad way or anything," he assured Kurt, "just—wasn't that kind of weird for both of you?"

Kurt sighed. "Are you attracted to every girl you meet, Finn?" he asked, feeling slightly…uncomfortable in a way that he wasn't used to, not after two years of schooling in an environment where homophobia was dealt with in the same manner as any other form of intolerance or bullying—harshly.

But McKinley, Finn's school, was different. "No," Finn answered honestly, "just the hot ones."

Kurt nodded. "Exactly. It's the same for gay guys," he explained, with almost exaggerated patience. "We're not attracted to every boy we meet; just the ones that happen to meet our personal standards. Since I'm not attracted to Andy, us sharing a bed at Nationals wasn't any different than you sharing one with one of your guy friends on a school trip. And even if I did like him, it wouldn't have mattered, because I know Andy's straight. You wouldn't keep pestering a girl to go out with you after she tells you that she's not interested, or that she already has a boyfriend, would you?"

For some reason, Finn's face flushed at the idea. "Uh…no, because that's bad, right?" he suggested, looking at Kurt for confirmation.

Kurt ignored Finn's sudden weirdness in favor of making his point. "Right. And again, it's the same for anyone, gay or straight," he stressed. "If I were to pursue a guy after he's made it clear that he's straight—and it really does help if you actually say it," he added, "since so many people are closeted in backwater states like this one—it wouldn't be wrong because I'm gay, it would be wrong because I'm showing that I have no sense of personal boundaries. Does that clear things up?"

Kurt waited while Finn thought it over, and he could tell the moment that the message landed by the simple, sweet smile that broke out on Finn's face. "Yeah, I get it now," Finn beamed, clearly pleased with himself for having worked it out. "Thanks, man."

Before Kurt could breathe a sigh of relief at the straightforward explanation going so well, at least for the moment, or deal with the lingering discomfort he'd felt at the insidious reminder that outside of the safe bubble he'd been living in, there were millions of people that wouldn't accept Kurt's reasoning as easily as Finn had, Finn started leafing through Kurt's music again. "So where else did you go in L.A.?" he wanted to know. "Are there palm trees there, or not, since it's a city?"

Kurt smiled.

* * *

><p>About a week and a half after Kurt's first dinner with Carole and Finn, Kurt was lying on the couch with a cup of coffee, trying to finish one of his required summer reading novels, when the doorbell rang.<p>

Frowning at the clock—it was 9:17am on a Sunday, an indecent time for _anyone _to be visiting—Kurt marked his spot with a bookmark and padded barefoot through the kitchen and down the hall to the front door. A quick glance through the peephole answered any questions that Kurt might have had, and he rolled his eyes as he unlocked and opened the door to reveal a smiling Jesse St. James.

"You know, civilized people wait until at least 10:00am before barging into other people's houses," he commented dryly, stepping back to allow Jesse and his two oversized shopping bags through the doorway.

Jesse smiled unaffectedly. "I'd hardly call it barging in, since you answered the door and held it open for me," he pointed out serenely. "And really, if we're talking about civilized manners, how about the standard conventional practice of putting on clothing before receiving guests?"

Kurt glanced down. He was still in a _Hummel Tires & Lube _t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, it was true, but they and he were both clean. "What do you want, Jesse?" he asked with a sigh, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall next to the door.

Jesse admonished him with a look. "Again, that is no way to treat a guest," he scolded lightly. "Especially one who comes bearing gifts."

He held out one of the shopping bags to Kurt, who took it, intrigued in spite of himself. "It's the rest of my Tai Chi collection, for Burt," Jesse explained, as Kurt looked inside the bag at the pile of DVDs. "And, in the event that he behaves himself and actually does his exercise," he continued, holding up the second bag, "a week's work of heart-healthy, low sodium dinner entrees."

Kurt raised an eyebrow as he accepted the second bag. "Where did you get these?" he wanted to know, peering inside the bag at the neatly-stacked takeout containers. "You don't cook."

Jesse smirked sweetly. "No, but our neighbors have an Obama sticker on their Prius and a personal chef," he confided. "I merely mentioned to them that I was bringing meals to the cholesterol-laden impoverished, and did they have anything they could please contribute?"

Kurt shook his head. "You're a terrible person," he deadpanned. "And thank you."

"You're welcome," Jesse said simply. "I smell coffee."

Kurt took the blunt cue and lead Jesse into the kitchen, pouring two fresh cups of coffee. "I thought you were taking those with you to Los Angeles," he remarked with a nod at the bag of DVDs, adding cinnamon and sugar to each mug before passing one to Jesse. "Not enough room in your luggage?"

Jesse shrugged elegantly. "I wouldn't know," he replied easily. "I haven't packed yet. I'm not leaving Ohio until September 5th."

Kurt took a sip of coffee, frowning at it when he realized that it was a little cooler than he liked. "That's late, isn't it?" he wondered out loud. "Everyone else's classes start before Labor Day."

Jesse mirrored Kurt's previous actions, right down to the mildly disgusted grimace at the coffee mug. "Choir rehearsal doesn't start until the tenth," he informed Kurt, getting up from the table and putting his cup in the microwave. "I'll be there in plenty of time."

Kurt stared. "For choir, fine," he said flatly, "but what about classes? They must begin earlier than that."

Jesse gave Kurt a condescending look. "I haven't been to class in over three years," he reminded Kurt, turning back to the microwave to watch his coffee slowly spinning around. "Why would I start now? Especially in California—were you aware of how many Asian students there are out there? My grades are going to be exquisite."

Kurt blinked. "All right," he said, putting his coffee down with a harsh clink. "First of all, that's racist," he pointed out. "Second of all, Carmel is a very one-of-a-kind, twisted little snowflake that in no way resembles the American educational experience. You're going to have to go to class at UCLA. I know it sounds harsh, but people significantly more idiotic than you have managed it before, so I'm sure you'll get used to it eventually."

Jesse frowned, his forehead wrinkling. "Kurt, I'm majoring in _show choir,_" he protested. "Classes would be a waste of my exceedingly valuable time; that can't possibly be right."

When Kurt's expression didn't change, Jesse's frown deepened. "Where's your laptop?" he demanded suddenly.

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes later, Jesse sat back in his chair with a contemplative, "Huh"; Kurt looking over his shoulder at UCLA's website, which expressly outlined the University's attendance policies.<p>

Kurt sat down next to Jesse. "Are you going to be okay?" he asked sympathetically.

Jesse blinked slowly. "My entire worldview just collapsed in on itself," he replied in a monotone voice. "I might need a minute." He paused, clearly thinking.

After a few seconds, he frowned. "Do you think this is a big enough shock to induce the minor drinking problem that will make me a more haunted and sympathetic artist in my late twenties?" he asked Kurt hopefully.

Kurt patted his shoulder. "I wouldn't risk it," he advised. "Why don't you hold onto this moment of crushing disappointment, and maybe use it in a scene someday?"

Jesse brightened at the suggestion—temporarily, at least. "I was really hoping to decimate the competition in my ongoing eBay bidding war over an original Edith Piaf morphine bottle," he murmured broodingly, staring intently at Kurt's computer screen. "I'm going to have to lose on purpose; that was the money my parents sent me to buy textbooks with."

He looked up at Kurt. "What's losing like?" he wanted to know. "Does it actually cause physical pain, or is that just a myth?"

It was a close call, but Kurt managed to avoid rolling his eyes in the wake of Jesse's spiritual-consumerist pathos.

* * *

><p>Blaine was back from Montreal ("I sent a postcard, I swear, but I have no idea what the front says," he'd told Kurt on his first day back in Ontario), and in a show of physical fitness that Kurt could admire without wanting to emulate—dancing with Vocal Adrenaline had him sweating enough for four people as it was, especially with the regime change—had been spending his early mornings running around the lake.<p>

"Well, not _around _the lake," he'd clarified over the phone that night, his voice shadowed with tiredness. "That would be, like, hundreds of miles. But it's nice, running by the water, and it's really peaceful in the mornings before all the tourists and kids start showing up. Plus, I can go swimming afterward if it's hot out."

Kurt hummed in response, preoccupied. "Not while you're still wearing your shoes, I hope," he admonished, getting up from his desk chair and flopping down on his bed instead.

He heard Blaine laugh. "No, I hide them in the bushes," he promised. "Or hold them over my head, if I'm not going in too deep."

Kurt picked at a cuticle. "Blaine?" he asked abruptly, changing the subject. "Can I tell you something, and ask you to think about it before you get angry or upset?"

There was a loaded silence.

"Why would I get angry?" Blaine asked finally, sounding worried.

Kurt curled further into his pillow and sighed. "Maybe you won't," he reasoned. "But will you promise to at least hear me out, first?"

Blaine sighed back. "Okay," he agreed warily. "All right. I promise."

Kurt rolled onto his back, blinking up at the ceiling. "Thank you," he breathed, trying to think of the best way to present the idea he'd been considering all day.

Or, if he was really being honest with himself, since the last week of school, when Kurt had refused to take Jesse's apology at face value, and Jesse had begun to step up accordingly.

Aware that the tense silence was stretching on dangerously long and likely petrifying Blaine, Kurt spat it out: "I think I've started to mostly forgive Jesse.

"Not for what he's done to you, or to Rachel," Kurt elaborated quickly, before Blaine could interrupt. "I can't forgive him for that unless you do, and I'd never ask you to—that's your decision to make. And I'm still not happy about the way he treated me. I don't think we'll ever be as close as we used to be, and I can't trust him the way that I did anymore, I know that."

"So why are you, then?" Blaine interjected, sounding almost annoyed at the prospect.

Kurt closed his eyes. "I'm not," he clarified, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "I don't. But staying angry at him hurts me as much as it hurts him," he admitted. "I've spent too much time being angry at everyone for everything—you, my dad, Jesse, _myself. _It's not doing me any good, holding onto feelings that upset me. And he is trying to make things right. I'm not saying that I'm going to give him a blank slate, but…"

Kurt trailed off, exhaling. "I'm moving forward," he explained. "And I don't need you to like it, but I'm hoping that you can accept that this is something that I need to do for me. I will never, ever let him come between is again, I promise, but I can't keep hating him if I want to move on. It just takes too much energy that I don't have."

Feeling sick to his stomach and picturing the myriad of ways in which Blaine could react to his decision, both good and bad (but mostly bad), Kurt waited.

After several long seconds, Blaine cleared his throat. "You're right," he answered, his voice rougher than usual and tinged with an emotion that Kurt couldn't identify, "I don't like it. But…I trust you. I don't trust _him, _but I trust you, and if this is what you need to do…"

He paused.

Kurt waited silently.

Finally, Blaine sighed. "I need to think about it some more," he told Kurt resignedly. "Right now, I don't want him near either of us, but I want you to do what makes you happy. And I know that he was there for you when your dad was sick—and I'm so glad that you had someone, Kurt, I really am—but I'm still _pissed _at him for lying to me about it, and _so angry _with myself for believing him and letting myself be chased off, and—"

He scoffed bitterly. "Obviously, there's a lot I'm still working through, about Jesse and everything," he pointed out. "Maybe I'll bring it up in Skype Therapy this week; it'd be a nice break from talking about my medications and 'support networks'."

Kurt's stomach continued to twist, the way it did every time he thought about what Blaine had done with his pills, and what the consequences could have been. "You know I won't do anything if you don't want me to," he said quietly, curling back up on his side with his hand on his abdomen. "I meant what I said—I won't let him come between us, and if me forgiving him even a little bit is going to cause problems for us—"

"No, Kurt," Blaine interrupted gently, and Kurt immediately stopped talking in order to listen. "Look, I'm not ready to forgive him. Maybe I'll never be ready, and that's…well, not _fine, _but it's my issue. But I'm not you, and if letting go and moving on is healthier for you in the long run, you should do it. I want you to be happy, Kurt."

Kurt hurriedly choked down his instinctual response. Because no matter how true '_I'm not happy without you'_ was at times, it wasn't fair of him to put that on anyone else.

He cleared his throat, willing his mind to clear as well. "When are you coming home?" he asked instead.

* * *

><p>On August 19th, Kurt turned his phone on after rehearsal—"You should really work on being less gay, if you can manage it," Dustin had told him disdainfully, unable to find any technical flaws in Kurt's performance to excoriate him for. "It may not be a choice, but Adorable Teen Homo decreases in appeal after the first 90 seconds, and it's less effective when you're dressed in the same costume as everyone else."—to find that he'd missed fifteen calls over the previous three hours.<p>

They were all from the same two people: Alan Patrickson and Desra Mueller.

Heart racing and mouth suddenly dry, Kurt ducked out of the auditorium, redialing the number for the zoo while he walked quickly down the hall, turning into an abandoned alcove in a nearby hallway for privacy—the same alcove where he and Blaine had kind-of-sort-of broken up, he realized with a lurch, as he heard a click on the other end.

"Kurt?"

Kurt exhaled quickly. "Mr. Patrickson," he answered, smoothing the disheveled hem of his shirt with his free hand. "I'm sorry I missed your calls; I was at rehearsal. Is everything okay?"

Much to Kurt's relief, he could practically hear Mr. Patrickson smiling over the phone. _"_Everything's fine, Kurt. We were probably a little overzealous in calling you so many times, actually, but we have some good news for you, and we wanted to tell you personally, instead of leaving a message. Is now a good time?"

Kurt's heartbeat picked up even more. "Now's a great time," he said breathlessly, leaning back against the wall, not quite daring to hope. "Are you…is it good news, or _really _good news?"

Mr. Patrickson laughed softly. "It's really good news, Kurt," he answered. "A $200 check came in today, from the Biology department at Dalton Academy, out in Westerville. We only needed another $190."

Kurt froze. "Does that mean…"

When Kurt trailed off, Mr. Patrickson finished his thought for him. "It does. We're at $11,000, Kurt."

For several moments, Kurt couldn't hear anything over the pounding of his heart. They'd done it. _He'd _done it. The fundraiser that he'd started had been successful, and Blaine's lion was staying at the zoo.

Limbs suddenly weak, Kurt slid down the wall until he was sitting on the ground, smiling out of sheer joy and relief.

Mr. Patrickson was still talking. "…_Lima Gazette _later, in time for the paper tomorrow, and a couple of news programs were keeping track of our progress and will want to report on it. We wanted to get ahold of you first, though; we all thought that you deserved to be the first person to find out. And we'd love it if you could come by sometime tomorrow, so that everyone can thank you in person."

Kurt's face was starting to hurt. "Sure," he breathed. "I can do that. I'm sorry, I might be in shock right now; I really am excited."

Mr. Patrickson laughed again. "That's all right," he reassured Kurt. "Get some rest, you've earned it. Congratulations again, Kurt; we'll see you tomorrow."

"Right," Kurt replied, "tomorrow. Thank you for calling."

"Of course," Mr. Patrickson acknowledged, before hanging up.

* * *

><p>The first person that Kurt called after getting off of the phone with the zoo was Blaine, leaving him a garbled, excited, likely barely-understandable voice mail when Blaine didn't answer.<p>

The second person that he called was Burt.

"Are you—Kiddo, that's incredible!" his dad shouted enthusiastically over the clanging machines at the garage, showing all of the exuberance that Kurt had been too shell-shocked to show himself when the news had been broken to him. "I knew you were gonna do it, but I'm so proud of you, Buddy. We've gotta celebrate somehow—we'll go out to dinner at that Thai place you like, or I'll call Carole and Finn and we'll have a barbeque, grill up your mom's chicken and kebobs recipe; whatever you want."

Kurt switched the phone to his other ear while Burt shared the good news with the other mechanics, replacing it just in time to hear the round of cheers and whistles. The shop employees, while not particularly effected one way or the other by the fate of a zoo animal, had nonetheless thrown their support behind Kurt, each chipping in $5 or $10 to the cause, as well as indirectly contributing their labor—Burt had allowed Kurt to auction off a handful of gift certificates for free vehicle inspections, including oil changes and tire rotations, to help raise money for the zoo.

He was going to have to bake them some (non-vegan) Thank You cookies.

"I'll be home in an hour or so," Burt promised once he was back on the phone. "We can figure it out then, if you want."

"Dad?" Kurt asked quickly, before Burt could hang up. "I—would it be okay if we grilled kebobs, like you said, but…maybe not invite the Hudsons tonight? It's not that I don't want them here," he rushed to assure Burt, and genuinely meaning it. "You know that I like Carole, and even Finn is starting to grow on me. It's just that…"

He paused. "I guess I've missed spending time with you, just the two of us," he admitted. "I know we do your Tai Chi together, but it's not quite the same, especially since it's something we _have _to do."

"Buddy," Kurt's dad interrupted gently, "why haven't you been telling me this? I know that things have been kinda hectic lately, and Carole and Finn have been coming over a lot, but I never want you to feel like I don't have time for you. You're my son, and that comes first—everything else can wait."

Kurt swallowed the rapidly-forming lump in his throat. "I…it's not just you," he confessed after a minute. "And it's not just lately. We're both always busy, but I want to spend more time with you; I want us to work harder at that. Is that okay?"

When Burt spoke again, his tone had softened. "My teenage kid actually _wants _to spend more time with his old man," he pointed out. "What planet would that not be okay on, 'cause I don't want to live there."

Someone in the background shouted something to Burt, and he shouted right back that he'd be over in a second. "Listen, Kiddo, I've got a couple more things to take care of here," he told Kurt. "But we're gonna talk about this some more when I get home, okay? Just you and me."

Kurt nodded. "Okay," he agreed.

"Good," Burt replied. "I'm glad I'm getting you back, Kurt. Even if it's just until your crazy rehearsal schedule starts again in the fall."

Kurt swallowed again. "Me too, Dad. See you at home."

"See you at home," Burt repeated.

* * *

><p>Kurt had dinner with Burt that night. He went to the zoo the next day, where he was praised and congratulated and fussed over for a long time, before everyone began making plans for what would happen next. He went to the last rehearsal of the week, tuned everything out as Dakota Stanley criticized an absent Dustin Goolsby for "the lingering stink of thirty-something ignoramus that's contaminating the air in here. You, fat blonde girl—get me a trash can, now!", and danced until he nearly turned an ankle. He showered, brought the giant, glazed fruit tart that he'd whipped together that morning to Hummel Tires &amp; Lube, and passed out plates and accepted multiple claps on the shoulder and ruffles of his hair without once complaining about the traces of motor oil that were being ground into both. Before leaving the shop, he fielded a phone call from an ecstatic Blaine, who had gotten Kurt's message and had promptly freaked out.<p>

When Kurt got home, he went to bed and didn't get up for two days.

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you're not getting sick?" Blaine asked with concern over the phone on Sunday, 42 hours into Kurt's self-imposed recovery period. "You sound really tired, Kurt."<p>

Kurt's eyes were closed. "I am really tired," he admitted, "but I'll be fine. There's just been a lot going on lately, and it's been…taxing."

Blaine hummed sympathetically. "Well, get some sleep while you can;" he suggested, "only two more weeks until school starts again. And rehearsals. God, that's going to be weird," he realized, "us singing lead in competing choirs. We won't have to sing against each other this year, will we?"

Kurt burrowed further into his bed, a position that had become painfully familiar since June. "Maybe not," he replied listlessly. "They redraw the districts every year, to keep things fair and competitive."

As happy as he'd been for Blaine, when Blaine had finally confessed that he'd auditioned for—and won—the lead soloist position in the Warblers, the idea of the crushing, vindictive Vocal Adrenaline Machine turning on Blaine, with Kurt at the helm, was a dark one.

"You don't sound too happy," Blaine said gently, almost as if reading Kurt's thoughts. "Are you _sure _you're okay?"

Kurt sighed. "I'm—yes, I…" The deflection failed midsentence as his half-formed excuse eluded him, and he sighed again. "I'm not, really," he confessed, clutching the phone more tightly, as if the action was enough to bring him closer to Blaine on the other end. "Rehearsals have been hard, lately."

"I thought you liked that, though," Blaine pointed out, sounding slightly confused. "Because they push you to work hard and get better."

Kurt let out a frustrated noise. "I know," he tried to explain, "but with the new instructor, and everyone being gone, it's just…" Kurt bit his lip. "They're not pushing me to improve, anymore. They're just pushing me. And it's directionless, and pointless, and I don't know if—"

He paused.

"You don't know if what?" Blaine prodded gently. "What is it, Kurt?"

Kurt's eyes were starting to burn, and he quickly shut them before they could flood with tears. "I…don't know if I want to do it anymore," he confessed in a small voice.

There was a heavy silence.

"You want to quit show choir?" Blaine asked quietly, almost disbelievingly. "I…wow. I honestly don't know what to say, Kurt."

Kurt shook his head miserably. "I know," he replied. "I think that if Shelby was still here, maybe she'd understand what I'm feeling, now, and things would be different," he said slowly. "But the way things are now—it's not just that Vocal Adrenaline's changed; _I've _changed too, and I don't know how to change back, or what to do anymore. I still love performing, and show choir and music, but…"

He sighed again, harsher and more helpless than before.

"I want to be the lead singer, and be recognized for my talent, finally, and to work with people that help me grow and improve," he admitted. "I want it so badly, Blaine. But…something about this isn't working, and I don't think it's going to get better when school starts again."

"Do you," Blaine began tentatively, before pausing, then starting again carefully: "Are you thinking about transferring?"

Kurt inhaled. "I…"

He trailed off.

He'd been about to tell Blaine that he hadn't really thought about it; that the idea hadn't really occurred to him until Blaine had mentioned it. In his heart, though, he knew that it was a lie—every time he'd watched the incoming freshmen conform or break during rehearsals; every time he'd obeyed one of Dustin's (sometimes inane) requests, while secretly amending them in order to protect his voice and own best interests; every time he'd thought of his dad, waiting for him at 8:30pm because Kurt hadn't come home yet; every time he'd done his homework at 1:00 in the morning, had thought of Sarita and Kenneth and Shelby's expectations for him, of his _own _expectations for him; every time, he'd thought of leaving Carmel, if only in an abstract, hypothetical, wordless way.

He'd just been too much of a coward to really stop and think about it. Because if he thought about it, and the reality was too much to live with, Kurt would have to do something about it.

"If you were," Blaine was saying slowly, "you could always come to Dalton. I love it there; maybe you would, too. If you wanted to."

And whether it was the suggestion itself or the earnestness of Blaine's tone, or simply how much he _missed _Blaine, like an ache that wouldn't go away, Kurt found himself inexplicably on the verge of tears. "Come _home,_" he pleaded softly, hearing the catch in his voice and knowing that, awfully, so had Blaine. "Please, Blaine. Just come home."

Blaine's voice was quiet. "I will," he promised. "Soon. I will, Kurt."

* * *

><p>That night, Kurt picked at his dinner with such disinterest that Burt finally put his fork down.<p>

"Start talking, Kiddo," he ordered, when Kurt didn't look up. "And don't try and tell me that nothing's wrong, because something's up with you right now and we both know it. Are you in trouble? Does some other wild animal need gourmet exotic kibble, or something? What is it, Buddy?"

The old Kurt would have reacted to Burt's prodding with annoyance, or by reinforcing the emotional wall he put up between himself and everyone else when he was upset. Instead, he mirrored Burt, putting his fork down on the table.

A vague, detached part of his brain raised a little, neural eyebrow, wondering _What is _happening _to me?_ Kurt ignored it, steeling himself.

"Dad," he said instead, "I need to talk to you about something."

* * *

><p>.<p>

* * *

><p>At 10:16am on August 23rd, Blaine Anderson woke up in his own bed for the first time in over two months.<p>

The drive back to Ohio with his parents the day before had been arduous and boring, made even more so by the heavy weekend traffic and Blaine's increasing desire to just be _home _already, tired of the endless stretch of road and trees and rest stops and ready to see his Dalton friends, and his lions, and his room.

And Kurt. Especially and Kurt.

Blaine had been cagey about telling Kurt the exact date of his return, first out of necessity—his mother hadn't figured out which day she could most easily take off of work in order to come get him until the previous weekend—and then out of wanting to surprise Kurt, to see the look on his face when he answered the door and saw Blaine standing on his front porch.

Unfortunately, Blaine's plan would have to wait a few hours, since Kurt had mentioned that he was working in the shop until 3:00. "And then a desperately needed shower, followed by a no-less-desperately needed shopping trip," he'd told Blaine, his voice slow and warm in Blaine's ear, not yet haggard from their serious conversation about Kurt's Vocal Adrenaline-related reservations. "That growth spurt I've been begging the universe for for ages is _finally _happening—I've grown almost two inches since June, and it's either buy new clothes or tailor every single thing that I own."

Blaine was planning on being on the Hummel's' front steps when Kurt got home that afternoon. In the meantime, however, there was someone else he desperately needed to visit.

* * *

><p>Nearly every time he'd visited the zoo in the past, Blaine had had the lion exhibit to himself. Clearly, however, the fundraiser that Kurt and his mother had told him about had changed things—clusters of people were gathered around the sections of the fence that were closest to the lions, who themselves were sprawled out in various spots around the enclosure.<p>

Blaine wasn't sure he liked the change. Still, it was better to have the extra visitors, some of whom had surely donated their time or money to keep Rafiki at the zoo, than to lose one of his lions altogether.

_Besides,_ he noted with a smile, _only two of the cubs are out here, anyway_.

The indoor section of the exhibit was cooler and darker—and, as Blaine had guessed, emptier. The third cub was inside as well, chewing on the fur near her right front paw, and Blaine hastened over to the fence to get a better look at her, eager to see if she'd grown at all over his many weeks away.

Only to stop when he noticed the newly-added sign, hanging on the opposite wall:

_**The Lima Park Zoo is proud to announce the upcoming expansion of our African Lion Exhibit, **_the large printed sign read. _**We would like to extend our sincerest gratitude to everyone who devoted their time and energies to making our continued growth a reality, and hope to proudly serve the Lima community for many years to come.**_

A list of names and organizations followed, and Blaine scanned them, absently at first. Many of the names were familiar or expected, such as a chapter of the ACLU, a group called Friends of the Zoo, and the _Lima Gazette. _Others, however, jumped out at Blaine, unnerving him—the St. James Family, McKinley High School's New Directions, Dalton Academy, Vocal Adrenaline, the _Warblers. _Blaine's eyes widened in shock when he noticed that his own _parents_, Mr. and Mrs. James Anderson, had apparently donated enough money to make the relatively short list. It was as if everyone he'd known since leaving Aquinas had gotten involved, somehow.

Incredulous, Blaine continued to skim the list, his hand shaking as it traced down the column of names, until he reached the last line of text on the sign:

_**And finally, **_it read, _**we at the Lima Park Zoo would like to thank Friends of Blaine, without whom none of this would have been possible.**_

* * *

><p>Blaine found himself walking into the single-story building that housed the zoo offices in a daze, not entirely certain how he'd gotten there from the lion enclosure.<p>

At the reception desk across from the double doors, a harassed-looking woman with two blonde braids was digging through a mountain of paperwork. She barely glanced up at Blaine as he stood there. "Public restrooms are on the other side of the building," she told him, dropping a sheaf of files onto her abandoned chair and resuming her paper shuffling. "Outside and to the right."

Blaine blinked, surprised. "Oh, um, no thank you," he stammered, still numb. "I'm here to see the zoo director."

The woman looked up, then peered closer at Blaine as if really seeing him for the first time. "You're shaking," she pointed out, hurrying around from the other side of the desk and grabbing an extra chair from the side wall. Plunking it down on the floor next to Blaine, she steered him into it with all the authority and precision of a seasoned nurse. "Is it an emergency?" she wanted to know. "Do we need an ambulance? Animal control?"

Blaine shook his head quickly, a bead of sweat dripping down his hairline. "No, no, nothing like—it's not an emergency," he assured the woman, who let out a sigh of relief and sat down hard on the desk. "It's just really important that I speak to him as soon as possible."

The woman looked skeptical. "I think it's more important that you lie down as soon as possible," she disagreed, looking his sweaty, ashen face over with disapproval. "You look sick. But if you can wait another fifteen minutes, Carolyn will be back and she can schedule you an appointment—she's the real secretary. She's been gone on an errand for nearly an hour and _I'm _supposed to be fielding all of the calls from the media about the lion fundraiser, which would be a lot easier if I could _find anything _on her desk."

The last part of the woman's explanation was surly and resentful, but was delivered toward Carolyn's apparently impossibly messy desk rather than Blaine. "Maybe you can help me, then," he tried, looking at her hopefully. "I had a few questions about one of the groups on the list of donors. The Friends of Blaine?"

The woman shook her head. "You and every amateur blogger within 100 miles," she told Blaine frankly. "I'll tell you what I've been telling them—the original organizer of the fundraiser has requested anonymity, but has worked closely with us in order to ensure compliancy with all state and federal regulations overseeing fundraising efforts. And he has," she added, looking satisfied. "I'm the zoo's financial manager, and you don't even want to know how much time I've spent looking over all the numbers with him."

_Him. _Blaine was suddenly 90% sure who that _him _was; who had gotten the Warblers, Vocal Adrenaline, even his parents involved; who had started a group that bore his name in order to save the lion he loved from having to move to another zoo where Blaine would never see him again.

But he had to be sure. "I know you said—I know it's supposed to be a secret," Blaine managed to press. "But if you could just get me in to see the zoo director, please, I think he might make an exception for me."

He took a deep breath.

"My name is Blaine Anderson."


	33. Chapter 33

33/33. Yup.

I have, quite literally, no more words left. Thank you for sticking with me on this one, whether you've been here the whole time, or for a whole three days; it's been a hell of a year.

* * *

><p>Fall was beginning.<p>

The sky was grey and bleak, and the damp winds blowing off of the water were cooling rapidly, gusting a little chillier each morning. The autumn leaves were turning; the birds were flying south in their graceful v-formations, and up in the mountains, thick layers of ice were beginning to grow in patterns long-familiar. Kurt could see his breath in the evenings, forming quickly-dissipating crystalline fog with every exhalation.

Soon, the cool bite in the air would darken to an icy chill, and Kurt would bring his favorite classic peacoat and scarf out of storage and stand outside, letting the wind tear at him the way he remembered his mother doing when he was little.

The first Monday in September, however, found Kurt standing on the shoreline of Lake Erie, a light jacket keeping him warm despite the overcast skies and breezy morning air.

He and his dad, who hadn't found the time over the busy summer to plan a more substantial vacation, had taken the four-day holiday weekend off from the garage and had rented a cabin on the lake, which Kurt had cleaned thoroughly for just over two hours before declaring it livable.

"Spring Break, Kiddo," Burt had promised over dinner the first night—a chicken they'd barbequed over a roasting pit in the yard (accumulating a layer of charcoal dust on their skin and clothing in the process, much to Kurt's simultaneous amusement and displeasure). "We're looking at colleges on whatever coast you want."

Kurt had brightened at the prospect. "New York?" he'd asked hopefully. "Or L.A., so I can spend a couple of days with Sasha and Jesse, too?"

Burt had ruffled Kurt's hair, earning A Look in exchange. "Go through all of that college mail that's started pouring in, and pick a city," he'd instructed with a smile. "I'll book plane tickets early, and we can go on another set of college tours next summer. Unless you're too busy saving the whales or something."

Kurt had rolled his eyes, swallowing a mouthful of chicken. "There aren't any whales at the zoo, so I think my duties are complete," he'd retorted dryly. "But we'll have to go at the beginning or the end of the summer, if that's okay with you—I'm auditioning for The Academy again, and any other summer program that Kenneth and Shelby recommend, just in case."

His dad's grin had been immediate. "I was counting on that," he'd told Kurt. "Don't think for a second that I was going to let you give up another opportunity like that—you're going next year, whether I'm healthy, or in traction and peeing in a bag."

The meal had ended soon after that, due to Kurt's loss of appetite at the ensuing horrifying visual.

The whole weekend had been…peaceful, really, and when his dad had begun packing the car to drive back to Lima that morning, Kurt—a self-professed hater of beaches—was almost sad to leave, especially with the prospect of school beginning the next day, and had walked down the lawn to spend a few more minutes by the water before they had to go home.

The wind was picking up and the waves were hitting the rocky shore with more ferocity than the day before, leaving the beach nearly devoid of people. A few elderly beachwalkers were determinedly making their way against the breeze, however, and about fifty yards down the shoreline, a pair of children and their young mother were playing in bathing suits and sunhats, constructing a sloppy sandcastle with brightly-colored shovels and pails.

The wind snatched the hat off of the little boy's head, revealing a mop of unruly brown curls. Yowling at the theft, he ran after the hat on tan, chubby legs, catching up with it right before it tumbled into the water. Kurt watched with misting eyes as the boy carried his prize back to his mother, who firmly settled it back onto his head, affectionately rubbing his little back through his patterned swim shirt as he plopped back into the sand and began refilling his bucket.

Kurt chewed on his bottom lip. The little boy easily could have been Blaine at three years old, and Kurt's heart clenched as he watched him play with his big sister.

Despite the multitude of photos he had of Blaine—on his camera, phone, computer; there was even one in his wallet that someone had taken on New Year's Eve that Blaine didn't know about—he had somehow gone their entire friendship, relationship, and long-distance hiatus without ever seeing a picture of Blaine as a child; nothing that had been taken before the 6th or 7th grade. It wasn't something that he had ever thought about before (and it wasn't as though he'd seen baby pictures of any of his other friends, either), but the omission suddenly felt glaring, and Kurt found himself unexpectedly yearning to see them; to know Blaine better, know him entirely—what he looked like as a child, who his first crush was in junior high, what he thought about in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep, what his children would look like, whether he would cry from happiness when they were born (although the answer to that one, Kurt was sure, was a resounding _yes_).

In so many ways, it was like before, when he and Blaine had first met and Kurt had fallen for him hard and fast.

_Only, _he thought slowly, arms folded over his jacket and hands grasping his elbows as he turned away from the little boy and looked back out over the lake, _now it's real._

_Now, it's real._

Kurt swallowed painfully. If they ever got back together, he was going to plead and nudge and needle with his best puppy-dog eyes until Blaine dug out all of his childhood photo albums. It wouldn't be everything, but it would be a start.

And if they didn't…

Almost as soon as Blaine had returned from the Frozen Land of the Northern Tundra ("It's not nearly that bad in the spring and summer," Blaine had insisted, the first time he'd heard Kurt's description) he'd been whisked away again, this time to visit his mom's parents in rural Pennsylvania, where technology went to die ("That one _is _about as bad as you think it is," Blaine had admitted gloomily) before the start of the new school year.

Despite the quick turnaround, however, Blaine had managed to visit him once before leaving him again, one afternoon after work:

_Kurt was driving home, sweaty and tired and beyond ready for a shower, when he spotted the familiar Honda in front of his house. Wide-eyed and hardly daring to believe it, he turned into his driveway a little faster than was strictly safe, barely shifting the car into park before ripping his keys from the ignition and shoving open the door:_

_Blaine was standing on his front porch, waiting for him._

_Heart pounding in his chest, Kurt practically flew down the path, forgetting to shut and lock the car door in his haste. "Blaine!" he blurted out stupidly as he bounded up to the steps in front of the porch, smiling goofily and uncontrollably. "Why didn't you—when did you get back; I would have taken the day off if I'd…"_

_Kurt trailed off as he _really _looked at Blaine, noticing with growing unease that Blaine was trembling, his skin paler and clammier-looking than was usual or healthy; a sharp contrast to the pinkish tinge around his eyes that made Kurt realize with dread that he'd probably been crying recently. "Blaine…" Kurt began helplessly, pausing when he couldn't figure out what to ask._

_Blaine took Kurt's obvious concern as his cue. "It was you, wasn't it," he managed to state rather than ask, his voice thick and raspy with tears or exhaustion—or perhaps some complicated mix of the two. "You're the one who started the fundraiser at the zoo, and did all of that work to keep Rafiki here. For me."_

_His eyes were glistening, and Kurt felt his mouth dry suddenly. He had never intended to tell Blaine who was behind the project; it was enough that someone had done it, and that Blaine was happy. _

_But far, far worse than admitting the truth would be lying to Blaine again, especially with their history. "It was," he confessed nervously, unsure whether Blaine would be happy that Kurt had helped save his lion or disappointed in Kurt for keeping the scope of his involvement in the project from him._

_And for a moment, it seemed as if the answer would be both—tears threatening, Blaine shook his head, smiling sadly and ruefully. "I should have known," he chastised himself quietly, gazing at Kurt. "Nobody loves the lions like I do; nobody else would have put in that much time and effort and—"_

_He broke off, swallowing._

_Kurt watched him, hypnotically._

_Blaine noticed and dabbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his cardigan. "But nobody loves me like you do," he admitted softly, his breath hitching in his throat. "Kurt, I—thank you." He held out his hand, tugging Kurt up the porch steps and into a hug, burying his face in the crook of Kurt's neck and holding onto him like a lifeline._

_Kurt, still reeling from the knowledge that Blaine had somehow found him out, wrapped his arms around him carefully, not entirely trusting the good fortune that he was so desperate to have. "You're not upset with me that I didn't tell you?" he murmured gently into Blaine's hair, breathing in the familiar but nearly-forgotten scent of Blaine's shampoo and conditioning serum and cologne; a heady mixture that made his limbs shake with want._

_Blaine shook his head slightly, not moving from Kurt's arms. "How could I be?" he replied honestly, his breath warm on Kurt's shirt. "It's—what you did is the most wonderful thing that anyone has ever done for me, Kurt. I could never be upset about that, ever. What you did for—I could spend the rest of my life trying to deserve something like that and never get there. I just…thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you." _

_His arms tightened around Kurt's ribcage, and Kurt surrendered. _

_Blaine was warm and solid against him; his body, encircled by Kurt's, still fitting as if the two of them were made to piece together, despite the fact that they'd each grown a little taller over the summer, filled out a little more. Everything was heat and tension and _right, _and Kurt knew that the second he let go, the absence of Blaine would pain him again; the familiar ache in his bones that he'd been living with for months but had never quite learned to accept; a feeling that had never quite faded in its sharp intensity to something that would, or could, be ignored._

_So he didn't let go._

_Neither did Blaine._

Kurt pulled his jacket tighter against his body.

No decisions about the future had been made that day. Kurt already knew what he'd known since the day before his father had nearly died—that he wanted, needed Blaine in his life as someone more than his best friend, and that he wouldn't back down unless Blaine specifically told him to. But the invisible barrier that had restrained Kurt from tugging Blaine further into his arms and kissing him, showing him wordlessly what he was too afraid to say, lest his hopes be shut down for good, was still there, and Kurt knew in his heart, that as much as he wanted to leap over it and be done with all the insecurities and doubts and hopes and ruminations, that they _both _had to want to throw out all the mistakes they had made before in order to start again; start again and do it _right_ this time.

He already knew where he stood, and after the revelation that Kurt had been the one behind the efforts at the zoo—as grand and dramatic a gesture for the ages as there ever was—he knew that Blaine knew it, too.

Which meant that Blaine had to be the one to bridge the space between them.

Behind Kurt, familiar footsteps crunched over the gravely path and onto the rough sand. A big, warm hand gently clapped him on the shoulder. "Ready to go, Buddy?" Burt asked.

Kurt turned his head to look at him, his hair getting tousled by the wind blowing at them off of the lake. Burt had left his baseball cap in the car, wary of losing it in the breeze, but he otherwise looked like he always did, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that Kurt had patched and mended the elbows of long before, when Burt had refused to part with it.

To Kurt, already nostalgic after a weekend alone with his father and a morning spent thinking about Blaine, he looked like home.

Something of what he was thinking must have shown on his face, because Burt stepped in and wrapped his arm around Kurt's shoulders. "I love you too, Kiddo," he promised solemnly, shaking Kurt affectionately and pulling him into his side. "Stay and watch the waves for another minute or two?"

His head tucked against Burt's shoulder, Kurt nodded serenely.

Nodding back, Burt tightened his grip on his son, and the two of them stood there, facing the water together. Kurt relaxed into his dad's arm, feeling more at peace than he had in a long, long time.

It had been a rough number of years for them. His mother had died too suddenly and too young, and nothing could ever make up for that, or bring her back and give the three of them the life that they should have had. And it wasn't something that either Kurt or Burt would ever entirely get over, no matter how many years continued to pass.

But the two of them were going to be fine.

* * *

><p>That night, Burt watched as Kurt packed all of his new school supplies into his slightly-worn-but-still-sturdy bookbag at the kitchen table, hands working with precise deliberation.<p>

"Are you nervous?" he wanted to know.

Kurt briefly considered lying, but decided against it—even if he could look past the whole "being honest with my friends and family" tack he was trying to stick with, the stiffness of his movements had likely already given him away. "Yes," he admitted, buckling the two straps that held the bag closed and nodding at it, satisfied.

Burt looked on sympathetically. "There's still time to change your mind, if you want to," he reminded Kurt. "Smart kid like you; we could probably get you in just about anywhere."

Kurt shook his head. "No—I can handle it," he assured Burt thinly.

Burt was unimpressed. "I know you _can _handle it," he stressed. "You've got so much steel running through your backbone, they could drop an anvil on your head, and you could handle it. I'm just reminding you that you don't _have _to."

Kurt smiled briefly at the imagery, before taking a deep breath and blowing it back out. "I want to," he said with conviction, looking his dad in the eye. "I'm ready for this."

Burt watched him searchingly for a moment, then nodded. "Okay then," he said simply. "Whatever you think is best for you, I'll back you up all the way; you know that. And hey," he added, "even if the drive's a little further than Carmel, at least they gave you that fancy jacket to wear, right?"

Kurt glanced over at the door leading downstairs to his basement room.

Hanging from the doorframe, in a heavy plaid garment bag, was his very own Dalton Academy blazer.

* * *

><p>Late that night, far later than he had any desire to be awake, Kurt lay stretched out on his bed in a boneless, frustrated heap, wishing that the idea of taking a low dose of sleeping pills had occurred to him <em>before <em>1:00am. Rolling over on his side, he glared, exhausted, at the glowing numbers on the digital clock.

If they noticed his annoyance, they gave no indication of it.

Rolling his eyes and flopping back on his pillow with a sigh, Kurt cast his mind way back, remembering his first first day of school ever. His mother had held his hand tightly all the way up the path from the car to St. Luke's preschool, his dad walking backward in front of them with the video camera, grinning and peppering the pair of them with questions.

The camera had died a sudden and inglorious death seven years later, when Burt had accidentally sent the box it was in tumbling down the stepladder leading up to the attic. Kurt didn't miss it.

He still sort of wished that his mother was there to hold his hand, though. Especially after the thought occurred to him that, in only a few days, he'd be seventeen years old, and have officially lived more of his life without his mom than with her.

Untangling himself from his bedsheets and padding over to the dresser, Kurt picked up the picture of himself and his parents than Blaine had given him for Christmas, moving it over to his nightstand where he could see it better. Once he was settled back into bed, he reached out and traced a finger over his mother's hair.

"I miss you," he whispered quietly. "I wish you were here."

Suddenly much more drained than before, Kurt closed his eyes and slowly, finally, drifted off.

* * *

><p>The grand staircase in Dalton Academy's main academic building was sprawling and ornate, with intricate, wrought iron siding that spiraled up to the second and third floors underneath an equally impressive glass-domed ceiling. The effect was both visually interesting and architecturally classy, and Kurt, sitting on the third step above the richly-furnished main hall, felt a little small and out of place.<p>

Nervously, he glanced at his watch and tugged at the slightly-too-long sleeves of his navy blazer (he had decided against hemming his uniform until after his growth spurt finished), listening carefully for approaching footsteps. It was still early in the morning, almost an hour before classes were scheduled to begin, and Kurt had only seen one other student in the ten minutes he'd been waiting; a yawning, blazer-less boy with a crooked tie and an inhumanly large styrofoam cup of coffee.

Which was fine by Kurt, given that he was three minutes away from a conversation which would have some fairly substantial repercussions, one way or another. And that type of conversation was one of the few things that Kurt really _didn't _want an audience for.

If Wes had been pleased to hear from Kurt the week before, it was nothing compared to his reaction when Kurt had mentioned that he was planning on transferring to Dalton for the new school year. His excitement—while still dignified and slightly formal, in the manner that Kurt had come to expect from him—was palpable over the phone, and it had taken Kurt several minutes to extract a promise from him that he wouldn't immediately email every Warbler that he had ever met, past and present, and inform them that Dalton Academy would soon be in possession of its first countertenor in 47 years.

"I'm not even certain that I'm planning on auditioning yet, to tell you the truth," Kurt had admitted, to Wes's sputtering horror. "I want to, but…it's complicated. And if it's not too much to ask, I could really use your help with something."

Wes had quickly and solemnly pledged his assistance upon hearing Kurt's request, and had even redoubled his vow of absolute secrecy—"Excepting the other two members of the Warbler's Council, of course," he'd cautioned. "You can be assured of their silence as well, but it would be unbefitting of my role as Senior Councilmember if I were to proceed without their approval."

Kurt had agreed—and fortunately, so had David and Thad, the other members of the Warbler's three-man leadership. Kurt was given a time and a place to wait; all he could do after that was hope that Wes followed through.

And at exactly 7:15am, Kurt was startled out of his simmering, nervous reverie by the sound of a large wooden door opening down the hall. He quickly wiped his sweating palms on the back of his pants and fixed his hair, as two slightly muffled voices drifted down the hall toward him:

"…_usually the Council that approves or denies potential auditioners, to be voted on by the Warblers at large, but your opinion was specifically solicited as well,"_ Wes was saying, no hint of the early morning hour discernible in his voice. _"What's more, he's also requested a blind hearing, meaning that if one of the four of us votes against him—and he's consequently not selected for a formal audition—he's not permitted to find out who, or how many, failed to vote in his favor."_

"_Yes, but why?"_ Blaine asked, sounding tired, and Kurt's pulse began to race at the sound of the familiar voice. "_I don't know any of the new students yet; why would anyone care whether or not I wanted him to join, and go out of his way to make it so that I could vote against him and not get—"_

Blaine and Wes turned the corner, coming face to face with Kurt, where he was still seated on the grand staircase.

"Hi," Kurt said quietly, suddenly more self-conscious than he'd been in…years, possibly.

"…blamed," Blaine finished finally, staring at Kurt like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. "Kurt, what are—"

He paused, realization dawning in his eyes. "You're wearing a uniform," he said breathlessly. "Does that mean…"

Wes clapped Blaine on the shoulder. "Oh, you two already know each other, then," he said mildly, winking conspiratorially at Kurt behind Blaine's back. "Blaine, Kurt Hummel is one of our new transfer students this year. I was hoping to introduce you two, to give you a chance to get to know him before the Council votes on his application, but since you're already acquainted, maybe I'll give the pair of you a chance to catch up, instead."

He patted a still-stunned Blaine on the shoulder again, before nodding at Kurt. "Welcome to Dalton, Kurt," he said politely, smiling in an overly-innocent manner that almost reminded Kurt a little of Jesse.

With a final nod at Blaine, Wes turned away and walked out the door he had come in, leaving Kurt and Blaine alone in the main hall.

* * *

><p>Kurt broke the silence.<p>

"So…I kind of hope that you meant it, when you told me that I should come to Dalton," he said with a slight grimace, hardly daring to meet Blaine's eyes.

Blaine, who clearly hadn't heard a word that Kurt had said, and was shaking his head disbelievingly. "You're here," he replied instead, starting to smile. "I can't—you're really here."

Encouraged, Kurt returned the smile shyly. "It wasn't easy, he admitted, glancing down at his shoes before looking back at Blaine. "They had capped their new student registration by the time I called, so I had to pull out all the stops—grades, athletics, a letter of commendation from the zoo staff, citing my 'outstanding community service experience and natural leadership ability'."

He rolled his eyes self-deprecatingly as he air-quoted. "I think it was the call from my math teacher that sealed the deal, though," he added, giving Blaine a wry, knowing look. "It seems that there was still a substantial amount of scholarship money left for a junior who's mathematically competent enough to tutor calculus in the Homework Resource Center one afternoon a week until graduation. Not enough to cover room and board, of course, but I would have lived at home anyway."

Blaine rubbed the back of his neck, still shaking his head a little. "I'm surprised that they didn't offer you a music scholarship," he replied, his eyes trained on Kurt as though he thought Kurt might disappear if he looked away. "Something like two-thirds of the Warblers have at least part of their tuition paid for by an endowment."

Kurt closed his eyes. "I didn't ask for one," he admitted.

Blaine raised an eyebrow, confused, and Kurt shook his head quickly. "I—the Warblers are yours," he continued, before Blaine could say anything. "I couldn't—coming to school here is already so much; joining the Warblers without even asking you first would have been…"

Kurt shook his head again, sighing at his lack of eloquence. "Anyway, I'll be taking voice lessons twice a week, still," he added, "so I have that. And now that Dad and Carole are officially dating, Rachel's convinced herself that I'm part of the family, and she wants me to join the Gay Men's Chorus that her dads are in. I wasn't sure about that one, but I listened to them on their website, and they're actually really good, so…"

He shrugged listlessly. "It's enough to keep me improving, if you don't want me to audition. I'll miss it, but—"

"Stop," Blaine interrupted, quietly but so abruptly that Kurt obeyed without even thinking about it.

He held out his hand and Kurt took it, only to be pulled to his feet and down the last few steps of the staircase.

"We're finding Wes," Blaine insisted as he began to lead Kurt down the hall, still gripping his hand tightly. "We're going to tell the Council that you're auditioning."

He looked back at Kurt, who was trailing half a step behind him, and Kurt was surprised to see something like calm determination on his face, making him look older and more beautiful than ever.

"You're auditioning," Blaine informed him, their pace down the hall slowing without either of them really noticing. "And you're going to blow them away, because that's what you _do. _And next month, when you're a full member, you're going to fight me for every single solo that fits your voice. _Every _solo, Kurt, the same way that you would if anyone but me was the lead singer," he insisted, staring powerfully into Kurt's eyes. "I mean it, Kurt; don't you dare—you can't hold yourself back because of me. I…can't be the one who does that to you."

Kurt's vision began to swim, either from inconveniently-timed tears or oxygen deprivation, and he took a couple of deep breaths, blinking rapidly. "You really—do you mean that?" he asked, biting his bottom lip and feeling his cheeks heat up slightly as they flushed a light pink. "You want me to…"

Blaine nodded, squeezing Kurt's hand. "_Yes,_" he stressed, "I do. I just—God, Kurt," he sighed, finally tearing his eyes away from Kurt and looking down the hall. "You were the lead singer in _Vocal Adrenaline_, the best show choir in the country. I know it didn't turn out to be what you expected, but I really thought that it was what you wanted." He looked back at Kurt questioningly.

It was a question that Kurt could answer, absolutely and definitively.

"I wanted you more," he said simply.

Blaine continued to stare at him with something like awe creeping into his expression, and Kurt felt his blush deepening as he looked self-consciously at the ground. "But please don't feel like—Dalton's a great school, and even with the commute every day I'll still have more time to spend with my dad than I did at Carmel, and—"

Kurt was abruptly cut off as Blaine's mouth closed decisively over his.

The kiss was everything that Kurt had been missing for so long—warmth and light and closeness and the solidity, the _certainty, _of Blaine's heart beating sharp and fast and young against his own. Kurt grasped the lapels of Blaine's blazer, pulling him in closer as Blaine gently wound a hand into his hair, kissing him deeply and reverently and tilting his head at just the right angle, making Kurt's limbs shake and his heart skip a beat and race on, faster and fuller; wanting to gasp for air and being totally, completely unable.

When they finally broke apart, Blaine kept a hand on the back of his neck and leaned his forehead on Kurt's, breathing heavy and eyes glittering.

"I missed you so much," he murmured quietly, reaching up with his other hand to stroke Kurt's cheek. "I'm so glad we made it here."

Kurt straightened Blaine's lapel and ran his hand down Blaine's arm, lacing his fingers through Blaine's against his cheek when he reached his hand.

"I'm so glad," he replied in the same quiet tone, "that you were such a terrible spy that day."

Blaine blinked for a moment, confused, before scoffing. "I _wasn't _spying," he pointed out indignantly, clearly not even trying to hold back his smile. "I had a hall pass, and I think we firmly established that—"

Stepping forward, Kurt cut Blaine off mid-sentence with another searing, overdue kiss.

Blaine would just have to remind him what they'd 'firmly established' some other time.

* * *

><p>At 3:30 that afternoon, Kurt auditioned for the Dalton Academy Warblers.<p>

The room was filled with boys in blazers, excited and chattering and greeting each other and horsing around. Some of them looked familiar to Kurt, from the few times he'd seen the Warblers in action that summer; others were strangers, not even familiar from his first day of classes. All of them were quick to sit down when Wes whacked a wooden gavel onto a large, official-looking desk and called the meeting to order. And all of them smiled encouragingly at him as Wes introduced him to the choir as their newest auditioner, a hush of whispers traveling around the room when it was mentioned that he'd recently transferred from Carmel High School.

In the middle of everyone was Blaine, watching him with clear eyes and a hint of a smile.

Kurt looked back at him as the Warbler at the piano gave him his opening pitch; as he took a deep breath, let it out, and inhaled again; as he began to sing.

"_When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now,_

_Will you still be sending me a Valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine?"_

The tempo was slow, far slower than the original track, but Kurt saw the spark of recognition on Blaine's face when he realized what song Kurt had chosen, noticed the murmurs of interest from the other boys out of the corner of his eye as they heard his voice for the first time, as beautiful as it had ever been, and more—because now, as Shelby had said, he was ready to sing with his heart.

"_If I'd been out 'til quarter to three, would you lock the door?_

_Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-four?_

_You'll be older too, and if you say the word, I could stay with you."_

It was nothing like the first time that he had sung alone in front of Vocal Adrenaline. Back then, Kurt hadn't been nervous simply because the temperature of the room had been decided before he'd even opened his mouth: some were going to approve of him, others would grudgingly respect his performance, and others—out of jealousy or personality clash or merely general contrariness—wouldn't be won over no matter what he did. And while Kurt didn't know what his eventual relationship with the Warblers would be –although he was hoping for the best, there was always the chance that the environment could devolve into the same mess, toxic and past its prime, that VA had—he couldn't help but smile as he soared through the bridge, noticing a few of the more spirited students on the couch behind the Council dancing in their seats along with his voice (quietly, of course, so that Wes wouldn't catch them).

Somehow, he didn't see them turning into the Vocal Adrenaline Machine anytime soon.

And then, there was Blaine. Fluttering his eyelashes and smiling self-consciously at the ground for a second, Kurt took a final deep breath and met Blaine's gentle eyes for the last verse:

"_Send me a postcard, drop me a line stating point of view,_

_Indicate precisely what you mean to say,_

_Yours sincerely, wasting away._

_Give me your answer, fill in a form: mine forevermore,_

_Will you still need me, will you still feed me,_

_When I'm sixty-four?"_

The applause was thunderous, half of the choir leaping to their feet to give Kurt a standing ovation. Hands were clapping him on the back; people were smiling and laughing and congratulating him, marveling at how high his voice could go, peppering him with questions about his range and his training and his teachers.

Still on the couch, tears dripping down his face and smiling beautifully, was Blaine.

Meeting Kurt's gaze, he carefully dried his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

And nodded.

_Yes._

Kurt smiled back, his heart beginning to soar all over again.

The End.


End file.
